


Pretend That You're Alone

by osaki_nana_707



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, M/M, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con References, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:50:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osaki_nana_707/pseuds/osaki_nana_707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Eames is a burned out university professor who goes to the park for lunch to get away from the chaos of his life. There he meets 16-year-old Arthur and begins to befriend him for his ability to have an intelligent conversation with him. When he discovers the boy is homeless, he decides to take care of him, but things with Arthur get more complicated than he could ever expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Part One

Eames had come to the conclusion that his students had no right being in a university. All they ever seemed to do was sleep or text message one another and that was if they showed up at all. He was beginning to regret ever coming to America to teach, and that was just sad because when he'd shown up fresh-eyed in his twenties, he'd been so excited. Now, at thirty-two, he was beginning to fear he had become his father, sallow-faced and disenchanted with the world.

…but he'd even grown tired of the actors in his plays, uninterested in their lack of effort to show up to practice on time, using their damned phones backstage even though it was a rule not to, and acting had been his first love in life. Psychology had come along in college, but he'd loved to act since he was a child. It was really quite pathetic, actually, how little the rich little arseholes who attended his classes felt entitled to good marks without trying because their parents had paid their tuition.

Sure, he could play himself off as smiley and charismatic, joking with his fellow professors and laughing loud when he and the chemistry teacher, Yusuf, were out for drinks, but underneath the façade he'd carefully put together, he was absolutely miserable. He was a brilliant actor in his own right, he thought, being able to fool so many people into thinking he still was all about molding young impressionable minds when really it was just about the paycheck now because there were no young impressionable minds to mold. He deserved an Oscar, really he did.

It was because of his growing abhorrence for the school that he'd decided to stop eating in his too small office and get _away_ from the godforsaken place and the godforsaken students. He found a spot in the little park across the street, a little park bench that wasn't occupied where he could eat his sandwich or whatever he decided to bring for lunch in peace and just pretend he was waiting for a cast list to be put up or for him stopping for a bite before running off to an audition, to pretend that he was twenty-two and not thirty-two and still full of high hopes and dreams, and he'd been going there ever since for three weeks.

Oh, Lord, all of the melodramatic angst his students were suffering from was starting to rub off on him, he thought as he took his seat and unrolled his brown paper bag. People probably thought he had a wife at home to make the lunch for him, he thought, smirking a little.

He would probably have to go back to eating in his office soon, as much as he liked the view of the city framed by the branches of an oak tree. It was getting cold out. He'd barely been out there ten minutes and his fingers were starting to go numb. The sky had gone that perpetual gray that it always did in the winter, and most of the leaves had fallen off of the trees, but he would stay as long as he possibly could. Maybe he would bring a thermos of soup or coffee with him next time.

It was then that he looked up and realized he was being stared at. At first he thought he was imagining it, but as he pulled out his pudding cup, he was sure it was happening.

It was a kid—well, no, a teenager. He was in a pair of holey jeans and scuffed up tennis shoes, and a too-large gray t-shirt with the writing long faded off. The little fool wasn't even wearing a jacket, trying to stay warm under his shag of dark hair, shoving his hands into his armpits to keep the cold from his extremities.

"You twit," Eames said, shaking his head at him. "What the hell are you doing outside without a coat? It's bloody cold outside."

The boy just jumped a little, as if he hadn't expected to be acknowledged, even though he was staring down Eames's pudding cup like it was made of gold and diamonds.

Eames sighed and tossed it to him. "Here. I brought two of them. Eat the damned thing and then run along home and get warm."

The boy caught it and then approached the bench slowly, mumbling, "Do you mind if I sit here?"

"Free country and all that," Eames said, scooting over slightly to provide more room (not that the boy needed it; he was nothing but a slender stick of a boy).

The boy pulled off the top and licked at the pudding there with a cherry red tongue, and then he squeezed the cup so pudding spilled over the top and licked it away. Eames interrupted by offering him one of the spoons he'd packed.

"Oh," the boy said, accepting it. "Were you expecting someone to share your Snack Pack with?" A corner of his mouth turned up just slightly.

"I used to share with my buddy Yusuf at the university, but I haven't been eating there recently. I guess I'm still not out of the habit."

"Oh," the boy said with a little noncommittal shrug. "Well, uh… thanks, I guess."

They sat in silence for a minute or two, until the boy had absolutely _devoured_ the snack, even diving his tongue inside to lick it off of the sides, and then he grinned cheekily at Eames, a little bit still on his lips, and Eames noticed he had precious, boyish dimples. He actually had a very nice looking face, if not a little pale and a bit dirty (there was a smudge of dirt on his left cheekbone). "So, um," the boy said, licking at his lips until they were clean. "You go to the school over that way?"

"I work there," Eames said, smiling. "I appreciate you thinking I'm young enough to be a student."

The boy smiled again. "Well, I didn't get that good a look at you before."

"Oh, that was below the belt," Eames responded, chuckling. He liked the boy. "I'm Eames, professor of psychology, speech and drama."

"Arthur," the boy replied, extending a hand with overgrown, dirty fingernails to shake.

"I haven't seen you around before," Eames said, shaking it, not caring about the dirt because it was seldom in his childhood that he walked around clean.

"Uh… yeah, I'm new to this part of town," Arthur said vaguely, digging a cigarette out of his pocket and shoving it between his teeth. "You want one?"

"Sure," Eames shrugged, taking it. "Why the fuck are you outside without a coat, kid? You know you'll freeze to death like that. I understand how you teenagers like to be rebellious, but that's a tad excessive, don't you think?"

"I'm not a kid," Arthur replied, "and I _did_ have a coat. I left it on a bench for like, a second, and some guy stole it from me."

"What kind of world are we living in that someone would steal a coat from a little thing like you? That's just bloody sad."

"I guess so," Arthur replied, blowing smoke out like he'd been doing it for years.

"So, do you go to school around here or something?" Eames asked, wondering just what the kid was doing out in the middle of the afternoon. Maybe he was cutting class. He didn't seem like the absolute nicest boy around, if the way he was already smoking was any sign of his behavior.

"No," Arthur replied, moving to stand. "Nice meeting you. Thanks for the pudding. I've got to get going now. I have an appointment of sorts."

"Aren't you a bit young to be having 'appointments'?" Eames asked, chuckling. "Are you some sort of child genius or something?"

Arthur blinked, cracked into that same adorable boyish smile Eames had noticed before and said, "I don't know. Maybe I am."

…and Eames figured that was the last he would see of the boy.

He'd only wished that he'd given him his jacket.

* * *

Eames returned to the university with a bit fresher of an outlook. He wasn't sure why seeing the boy had made him feel better, but somehow it had. Maybe it was just the whole 'clearly poor, didn't have a coat' thing that made Eames feel more appreciative for the home, the job, the things that he had. Maybe Eames was just a sucker for compliments followed by an adorable snarky comment.

It wasn't weird that he found the boy adorable, was it?

No, no, adults did stuff like that. Eames was surely just nostalgic for his own days of youth.

What difference did it make anyway? Having that moment where someone actually sat down next to him and talked to him, went out of their way just to notice him there by himself (even if it was only for free pudding), it was just _nice_. It was a little bright moment in his day. Eames was a man of simple tastes after all, and he was tired of feeling like a damned robot that was unplugged at the end of the night after work. It felt nice to smile again.

It was unfortunate how the feeling started to melt away when he stepped into class to find only four of the students had even showed up and one of them was already asleep. He sighed through his nose and banged a ruler on the desk loudly to startle all of them to attention.

"So glad of you to come," Eames said. "Now that you're here, shall we get on with actually learning something, or should I just give all of you failing marks now?"

The only one really paying attention, young and impressionable Ariadne who had come on scholarship and actually _appreciated_ the chance to take classes from highly trained professors, immediately flipped open her notebook and pressed her pen to a new line, ready to take notes. Eames couldn't even feel grateful for her because he could remember a time when all the students were like her. He could remember a time back when he'd first started when he'd been young like the students, had been their favorite teacher, rather than one they'd rather not even see.

It was actually kind of sad.

Actually, it was kind of _extremely_ sad.

They'd lost the will to gain knowledge, so why should Eames bother to give it?

Still, for Ariadne's sake, he taught the class (or what there was of one), though it was with the lackluster quality he just was nowadays. He gave them the notes and informed them that their papers were due soon. He reminded them to let any of their little friends who decided to skip out on class were going to fail if they missed another class. It was an empty threat, mostly—he could only do so much when their parents would pay the dean off to let them through (he really didn't know why they didn't just _pay_ to hand them a degree at that point).

By the end of class, he felt as miserable as he always did. It was just a shame, he thought.

* * *

The next afternoon, Arthur was back.

In fact, he was waiting on the bench when Eames got there.

"Well, look who it is," Eames said, smirking. "Back to steal my food again, eh, you little raccoon?"

"Raccoons are nocturnal," Arthur chuckled, "so I'm more like a hawk."

"We're in the city, so you're more like a pigeon or stray cat," Eames replied, sitting down and offering him half of his sandwich. "You know, you should get your mother to pack you a lunch or at least buy you some supplies to make your own lunch."

"Why?" Arthur asked, snorting. "You aren't wearing a ring, and you haven't mentioned any children, so clearly you don't have anyone else to provide for, and you're not exactly bringing kobe beef or anything."

"You're a rude little fucker, aren't you," Eames said.

"It's one of my worst qualities," he said around a mouthful of sandwich, "but hey, you offered."

"I'll keep that in mind and not do so next time," Eames said. "I see your mum didn't get you a new coat either."

"My mom's not really the ah… the _helping_ type," Arthur replied, more than a little bitterly.

Eames wasn't all that surprised. Most teenagers hated their parents nowadays anyway. Hell, most of his students hated their parents, despite all they gave them. Maybe Arthur had a legitimate reason, maybe he didn't.

"Bad relationship, eh? I know how those are," Eames said.

"You have no idea," Arthur replied.

"I think that I might just. You're what, fourteen, fifteen? You don't know anything about the real world just yet."

"You've got to be pretty fucking stupid to think that I don't know anything just because I'm young," Arthur said suddenly, and he didn't even sound mad so much as he sounded amused. "Aren't you supposed to be a teacher of psychology? You should know that age isn't necessarily the factor in knowledge. I mean, come on, think about it, we learn the most during our first five years of life, and kids are a lot more susceptible to things than adults. Children don't get bogged down by the melodrama of their lives and aren't nearly as distracted by other people's opinions. So… really, if you look at it that way, I'm probably wiser than you are _because_ I am younger."

Eames raised his eyebrows with surprise and couldn't help but actually bark out a laugh. "You're a bit bright, aren't you?"

"I like to read," Arthur replied with a shrug.

"You strike me as the type who likes to be a bit too smart for his own good."

"Is that so?" Arthur asked, forming a smoke ring with the last word before smirking. "You might be underestimating me, Mr. Eames."

He was mocking him, most definitely.

Eames didn't care too much; he kind of just enjoyed the company.

In fact, for the rest of that week, Arthur was always waiting, and he was always there to listen when Eames eventually started ranting about his incompetent students, laughing loudly at how stupid they were around his cigarettes and sandwiches and pudding cups. Arthur didn't talk much, but it was nice to talk to someone who wouldn't go accidentally spilling his dismay to any of his co-workers or students (like Yusuf, the bugger). Eames didn't even really care that Arthur was clearly some sort of hooligan, skipping class to smoke cigarettes in the park, or that he himself probably looked like some sort of pedophile, speaking so candidly with the young, _young_ boy, but… well… Eames's intentions were strictly pure, so anyone who thought otherwise could kindly go fuck themselves.

* * *

It only occurred to Eames on Saturday, while he was at home grading papers that Arthur had been dressed pretty much the same every day that week.

It also occurred to him as he set aside another paper that Arthur's theory about the wisdom of younger people compared to older people, while not necessarily true, was more thought out in the five seconds it took for him to come up with it then most of the utter bollocks the students had written three to five pages on.

It was frankly despicable, considering it was a Psych 101 class, and it wasn't even _difficult_. They had to be _trying_ to be this terrible. He wasn't even sure if it was remotely possible to be that stupid and actually make it out of primary school.

He would have quite liked to have someone like Arthur as a student. He seemed more like the type of person who would actually ask questions rather than just accept things. He gave a shit about what Eames had to say at least, and that was something that Eames hadn't had in a while.

He even sort of _missed_ Arthur.

It was only a passing thought, and he didn't think too hard on it.

* * *

Monday, Arthur wasn't there.

Well, apparently that was the end of that… and Eames had gone and made two sandwiches too.

He was a little saddened by it, but he shrugged it off. After all, it wasn't like he and the boy were close or anything. They'd shared lunch a few times and that was all, and he didn't put too much thought to it after that…

At least he didn't until Arthur showed up again on Tuesday, sporting an oversized leather coat.

"Where'd you get that?" Eames asked.

"Goodwill," Arthur said, plopping down next to him on the bench. "I didn't think you'd be back."

"Why?" Eames asked, furrowing his brow.

"You didn't show up for the past two days before yesterday."

"It was the weekend. I live across town," Eames replied, shaking his head at the boy. "Didn't you put the two together?"

"I… didn't realize what day it was," Arthur said awkwardly. "So, you don't live around here then."

"No, I have a place in the downtown area, a penthouse that my parents bought for me about eight years ago."

"Oh. So, you're like… rich or something. Is it because you're from the UK? I hear our dollar is kind of pathetic compared, but I don't pretend to understand that kind of stuff."

"I'm not rich," Eames assured. "My parents are rich. I'm a professor. I really don't make that much. Where do you live anyway?"

"Around here," Arthur replied vaguely, not looking at Eames directly, instead choosing to stare just over his shoulder. "Listen, I ah… I can't stick around. I've got an appointment. Like I said, I honestly didn't think you would be here."

"Then why did you come at all?" Eames asked, not unkindly.

Arthur stood, shoving his hands into his pockets and said, "I sort of… hoped you'd be here. It's nice to have someone who doesn't just pass me off as completely invisible."

Before Eames could so much as make any kind of verbal response to that, the boy had wandered off. He was terribly quiet and stealthy for a kid.

* * *

Eames didn't manage to leave his little hole-in-the-wall office until late in the evening, locking up just as Yusuf was leaving his own office.

"You doing all right there, Eames?" Yusuf asked.

Eames never could help but shake his head at the chemistry professor, always dressed in mismatched clothes like he chose his clothing in the dark (Eames wasn't much better, but admittedly Yusuf had more ridiculous things to choose from). Not even Yusuf's socks matched, one red and one brown –striped, and his laces in his shoes were also different colors. He was such a mess on the outside, but somehow he always seemed to have his head together. Eames couldn't understand how Yusuf had been working at the school just as long as he had and didn't get burned out.

"Very well," Eames lied as he always did, painting on one of his best smiles, showy and bright and maybe a little bit obnoxious. "Where are you headed off to? Home I'd hope."

"Ah, sleep is for the weak and the old, Eames," Yusuf chuckled, falling into step with him as they made their way to the staircase. "I've got a hot date down at the club, my friend. She is twenty-six, blonde, absolutely stunning—"

"Robbing the cradle, are you, Yusuf?" Eames smirked. "Aren't you about old enough to be the creepy guy at the club now?"

"She invited me!" Yusuf exclaimed, "and she's not that much younger than I am, you know. I'm only thirty-one. Besides, you're only as young as you feel."

"Tell that to me later when you break your back trying to limbo," Eames said, descending the staircase. "I'm not helping to pay for your medical bills when your charming little gold digger steals your credit card and leaves you on the floor by the way."

"Have it your way, mate, but really, we both know you're just jealous."

"She's fucking young enough to be one of your students," Eames replied flatly. "One of your students may have even dated her before you."

"Yes. Jealous."

Eames rolled his eyes, but he was laughing. "Well, I pray to God that she's at least semi-intelligent for your sake."

Yusuf bowed his head in thanks and opened the door, heading for the parking lot. "Do you want a ride?"

"No thanks," Eames said. "I'll catch the bus home. Wouldn't want you to keep your pretty little bird waiting, now would we?"

"I'll tell you about it tomorrow then," Yusuf said.

Eames shook his head at him again and started the trek to the bus stop. The night was bitingly cold, so Eames sank his face into his scarf and tried to keep himself downwind. It was dark too, except for the street lights and the occasional headlight of a car. Eames didn't mind the solitude too much… or rather he'd grown used to it at least. He thought that when he got home, perhaps he'd have a cup of tea and watch the weather in the hope that snow would fall and school would be cancelled.

He groaned inwardly. He really _had_ become his father. God, he was so boring and _old_.

"Go home!"

"Fuck off, I'm _going_!"

Eames looked up to see too silhouettes of people at the bus stop, features hidden from the headlights of a police car behind them. The taller one got back into the car and drove off, and Eames watched as the other turned around to give it the finger as it drove off into the night, and that was when Eames realized…

"Arthur?" Eames called out.

The boy jumped at the sound of his name and squinted into the dark as his eyes adjusted to the sudden lack of light. "Oh…" he said awkwardly.

"It is you, isn't it," Eames said, jogging to close the distance between them. It was most definitely him. Even in the dark, Eames could make out his distinctive features and dark eyes. "What the hell are you doing out here? Why was that officer hounding you?"

Arthur looked back at the bus stop's bench, pointing to it. "I was just taking a nap on the bench, and he woke me up and told me to go home. I tried to get him to leave me alone, tried to tell him I was waiting for the bus, but the asshole wouldn't let up, so I decided to move."

"Well, why _aren't_ you at home? A bench is a terrible place to take a nap, especially at this temperature. You'll freeze to death."

The bus pulled up at the station, flooding the both of them with light, and Eames could see Arthur's uncomfortable expression, the slight tremble in his shoulders… and Eames understood.

"Arthur… do you _have_ a home to go to?" he asked hesitantly.

Arthur shifted his bag on his shoulder, and mumbled, "I move around a lot, I guess you could say."

Arthur was homeless.

He was barely a teenager, and he was living on the streets. It explained the clothes and the dirt, everything.

"Come on," Eames said, putting a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Come with me."

"You can't make me call my mother," Arthur said as Eames dragged him onto the bus with him. "She doesn't have a phone. I don't know—"

"I'm not, but I'm not leaving you here. You'll freeze."

"I can handle myself—"

"Just sit down."

Arthur huffed and sat down in a seat at the back. "Fine," he grumbled quietly. "Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you back to my house. You can sleep there and stay warm."

"Why would you do that?" Arthur asked.

Eames hesitated, trying to think of an answer, but all he could come up with was, "because… you're my mate, and I always look out for my mates."

Arthur dug for a cigarette but couldn't seem to find one. "I don't have any money," he said. "Well, not much anyway."

"Don't worry about it."

"Surely you want something."

"I'll come up with something later."

Never once did it occur to Eames that it was a bad idea, because really… what harm could Arthur be? He was just a kid, down on his luck and probably just as lonely as Eames was.

Surely so.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Eames is a burned out university professor who goes to the park for lunch to get away from the chaos of his life. There he meets 16-year-old Arthur and begins to befriend him for his ability to have an intelligent conversation with him. When he discovers the boy is homeless, he decides to take care of him, but things with Arthur get more complicated than he could ever expect.

Part Two

With Arthur up next to him and Eames really paying attention, he couldn't understand how he had ever missed the fact that he was homeless. He had a distinctive smell and look of someone who hadn't bathed. He also had a weariness to his bones that no child should have, and frankly Eames just found it appalling that he hadn't noticed, hadn't attempted to help him sooner.

When the bus pulled to a stop, he led Arthur down the street to his building and then up to his floor. Once he'd shut the door, they both just stood in the foyer next to one another for a long moment.

"This is a nice place," Arthur said, his bag sliding off of his shoulder and thumping to the floor. "I feel like I should take off my shoes or something."

Eames shrugged. "I've only got one bedroom, so you'll have to sleep on the settee."

"Do you have a shower?" Arthur asked, looking over his shoulder after he ventured a little further into the house. He'd taken his shoes off to reveal a pair of socks full of holes. Eames was pretty sure he could see blisters on his heels.

"Of course I do," Eames said. "Would you like for me to wash those clothes of yours?"

"They're the only pair I've still got," Arthur said. "Why are you _doing_ this?" He turned fully towards him then, swinging his scrawny arms. "Did you have like… a homeless brother or something that you didn't help and now you feel guilty? Or is it that I seem just so pathetic that you felt the need to take me home like some sort of stray dog?"

He didn't sound agitated or even offended; in fact he just sort of sounded bemused, a little humored by the whole thing, like he thought that surely he must have been dreaming it. Eames didn't really have much of an answer, so he just chuckled and said, "I honestly don't know. It's like I said before, I just like you, and I don't want you sleeping on the streets. I'd worry, you know."

"I've been doing it just fine since I was twelve," Arthur said, grinning boyishly at him. "I'm not some delicate flower. I've lived through colder winters than this one."

Even with that comment, Arthur seemed perfectly content with making himself at home, slipping out of his coat and hanging it up on one of the hooks and hopping over the back of the couch to bounce on the cushions a couple of times. "So, do you have any roommates? A girlfriend?" he asked, never pausing in his bounce as he took in the view of the city through the glass windows. "A cat? A fish? A pet rock? Anything?"

"Nope. It's just me by my lonesome," Eames said, hanging up his coat and scarf. "The bath is through here."

Arthur climbed off of the sofa and fell in behind Eames, taking in the info as Eames pointed out his office, his bedroom, the kitchen, and then the bath.

"I haven't had any bath without the use of a sink in a long time," Arthur said staring in wonder at the tile. "Cool… Thanks."

"Don't worry—" Eames started to say, but he was surprised the boy was already unabashedly stripping out of his clothes, revealing the dirt-smudged, milky white skin over his spine and shoulder blades, and then he was dropping his jeans and briefs and showing Eames his equally pale ass. Eames cleared his throat and turned his eyes away, and then Arthur let out a far too beautiful laugh.

"Oh, _what_ , like you've never seen a bare ass before," Arthur teased, turning the water on as hot as physically possible. "I have a dick too, and a pair of testicles, if you can believe that. Come on, Eames, they're the same pieces of machinery that you have."

"How old are you anyway?" Eames asked, not turning to peek (at least not very much—and purely just for eye contact, really).

"Sixteen," Arthur replied, wincing and hissing through his teeth as he dropped one foot into the rising water, and—

Seriously, why was there a sixteen-year-old boy with his dick hanging out in the middle of his bathroom?

"You're awfully extroverted, aren't you?" he mumbled.

"Like I said, it's all the same parts," Arthur said, sinking into the tub with a sigh. "It's only inappropriate if you think it is."

"I'll uh… I'll take these and wash them then," Eames said, excusing himself with the pile of Arthur's smelly, holey clothes. He wasn't even sure if they would so much as hold up in his washing machine, but he threw them in anyways and ran them on the gentle cycle. He checked his phone messages (nothing new), checked to make sure he'd locked the door, and then he went back to check on Arthur…

…only to find that he wasn't there.

"Arthur?" he called out, ignoring the very obvious ring around the rim of the bath, the dirty handprints on the soap.

"Boo!" Arthur shouted, jumping out from behind Eames's bedroom door in one of his shirts and a pair of his boxers. He had left the top three buttons of the salmon, white-striped shirt unbuttoned, the collar of it hanging over his left shoulder so far that one of his nipples was showing.

"Those are my clothes," Eames said, and he wasn't really sure why he said it since clearly they both knew that they were.

"Thank you for that. I had no idea," Arthur said, tugging the shirt up only for it to slip back down again. "I told you I didn't have anything else, and since you took my clothes, I decided to take some of yours." He leaned over to tug up one of the socks he'd pulled on, but it rolled right back down his ankle.

"Well, you should at least button it up all the way," Eames scolded, stepping forward to take the fabric between his fingers to close it up a bit more. "I was going to wear this shirt tomorrow."

"This shirt is hideous, and for the record, I didn't button it because I don't like—" he paused to jerk Eames's hands away. "I don't like things on my throat."

"It wouldn't be on your throat even if you buttoned it up all the way. It's too big on you," Eames said.

"I don't like it," Arthur reinforced, but at least Eames had buttoned one button so that it didn't slide down quite so much. "What's the big deal, anyway? I'm dressed, aren't I? You invited me here, but now you're acting like I intruded. You really aren't used to company, are you?"

"Not particularly, no," Eames admitted. "I pretty much get up, go to work, and come home with the occasional day where Yusuf and I go for drinks."

"Yeah, well," Arthur said, just the slightest twinge of bitterness in his voice, "I wish my life could be so predictable. Do you have anything to eat?"

* * *

Eames had made him some ramen noodles because they were quick and easy, and the boy was devouring them with gusto. He certainly didn't have much for table manners, slurping loudly away at the noodles, but Eames would assume that would improve when his hunger lessened. Arthur could clearly use chopsticks anyhow, so it wasn't like utensils were new things for him.

"So," Eames said, folding his hands together and dropping his chin onto the top of them, "why the bloody hell have you been living in the streets?"

"Well," Arthur said, pausing to swallow, "my mom had this drug problem, right? When I was born, I was addicted to meth, and the hospital kind of had to put us both through rehab. She got her shit together, and she got me back, but by the time I was three years old, she was back on the stuff. One thing led to another, and we lost our house, and then we lost the apartment we were staying in, and then the guy she was staying with kicked us out. We ended up on the streets. Things went pretty typically from there on out, her sending me off to beg for money so she could buy more drugs while she did the same for herself. I kept some of the money I'd get so I could buy food—usually a cinnamon bun, they're so good. Um… yeah, she started to get it together again for a little while, and we moved into a shelter, but uh… but one morning I woke up, and she had left me there. She had run off somewhere, and I haven't seen her since then.

"No harm done though," he continued. "I can handle myself. By that time, I knew how to get by. I left the shelter because everyone kept thinking I did something to my mom, but I didn't need them anyway. Ever since, I've just been living my life. I go to the library like I always do, and I just sit and read for hours. I get my hands on some money, and I buy food… You know, and then you came along, and I didn't have to scrape around quite so much."

He had slowed to picking at the noodles, growing just the slightest bit shy at the admission. Eames could tell that Arthur was trying not to act ashamed of his upbringing, but he wasn't doing a very good job.

"Well, it's all right now," Eames said. "You can stay here as long as you like."

He wanted to believe it was a terrible idea, that he shouldn't have said it… but the appreciative look and grateful smile he got from saying it was enough to satisfy any of his fears for the moment.

He was just a _kid_. All he needed was a chance.

"So, uh…" Arthur said, gesturing around. "You're a pretty good looking guy, and you've got this killer pad. Why don't you have, you know, a wife or a girlfriend or whatever?"

"Ah… well, I suppose I just never found the right person. I was married to my work very early in life, and I'm pretty sure I just missed the boat."

Arthur pulled a face. "You're not even that old. You're what, like twenty-nine?"

"Thirty-two."

"That's not even old. Seventy is old. You could get all the chicks you want if you just went out and made the effort."

"I appreciate that, but I'm not terribly interested in starting up a relationship at this point. It's too much trouble to attempt to maintain. I've never been all that good at holding up my end on romantic affairs—"

"What are you, gay or something?"

"Where did you get that—"

"I don't know. I just got that vibe off of you, I guess," Arthur shrugged. "If it makes it easier to admit, I'm gay too."

"I'm not—You can't even know what you are. You're only a teenager. You don't know what you want yet."

"Don't give me that shit," Arthur said, smiling. "We all know what we want. It just takes some people longer to admit it than others. Wanting is a carnal desire, instinct. No, it doesn't control _everything_ we do, I'm not Sigmund Freud, but… well, yeah, it does have a lot to do with how we function."

"Here I thought that _I_ was the psychologist," Eames said with a smirk.

"I told you. I like to read," Arthur said simply. "It's not that I'm trying to claim you don't know what you're talking about…" Surely he was just backtracking to say such a thing so Eames wouldn't send him out (even though he wouldn't anyway). "I'm just saying that if you're claiming that you don't know what you want, then all you're really doing is denying yourself."

"You should probably save your theories for your thesis, pet," Eames chuckled, and watched as Arthur raised his eyebrows at him.

"Maybe I _will_ , someday," Arthur agreed, though he seemed to be halfway teasing. "I'm not much of a writer though. It's not that I don't know how words work, but my handwriting is kind of… bad… I never really went to school, you know?"

"Yeah, ah, I had a feeling since your living situation has been complicated—"

"I did get to go for a couple of years… you know, off and on, but uh… I guess I just sort of fell behind, and once I was by myself I figured I'd be better off learning on my own, so I read anything I could get my hands on."

"Well, you certainly seem smarter than some of my daft students. I think you could give them a run for their money, though admittedly I don't really think that's saying much."

Arthur drank the broth from his noodles and stared over the edge of his bowl at Eames. His eyes were so dark, like black pits, and Eames for one was finding it a little difficult to look away. "Cool," he said when he was finished. "I think I need a cigarette."

A few moments later, Arthur was out on his balcony smoking, and Eames was sitting at the table alone, staring at the little dark green bowl he'd eaten out of, wondering just what he had been denying of himself.

* * *

Five o' clock came far too early, but Eames beat his alarm clock into submission and crawled out from the warmth of his covers anyway.

He padded out of his bedroom with the slightly too long edges of his pajama pants swishing against the floor, rubbing at his eyes and his stubble as he stifled a yawn. He had nearly forgotten that Arthur was there at all, so he paused when he saw the curled up lump on his couch.

As Eames approached, he found himself just a little enchanted by the sleeping boy's face. The light flutter of his eyelashes as he drifted through REM, the slight part of his lips, the way his cheeks were flushed just so and how one strand of dark hair fell in a curl over the milky white bridge of his nose…

He looked like a fucking _angel_.

He brushed the hair back into place, and Arthur's shifted, head pressing further into the pillow, and Eames's fingertip touched the skin just above his eyebrow. At the realization of the feel of the slightly cooler skin, Eames's hand jerked away as if he'd been burned.

"What am I doing?" he asked himself, shaking his head as he moved away. Of course he knew the answer to that. He was being ridiculous. He shouldn't have been even laying a finger on him; he was just a _kid_!

…but it wasn't like Eames had meant anything by the gesture. He was just admiring him in a purely platonic way. Lots of people admired children for being precious and precocious and oddly wise. He was just sleeping peacefully, and Eames had innocently gone and tucked a strand of his hair away. That was all.

He was freaking out over nothing.

He really had been alone too long. That was all.

He reminded himself that he needed to clean the bath when he got home but still jumped in the shower anyway, giving himself a quick scrub down. The water was warm and helped wake him up a little… but he still didn't want to go into work. In fact, he was dreading walking through the doors and wondering if all of his students might just show up today or not. He also had to start auditions for the play this afternoon, and that used to be his favorite thing to do, but now it was like torture. He didn't even know if he'd get enough auditionees this time around, and even if he did, there was no guarantee there'd be any sort of talent in the bunch.

He sighed dejectedly as he pulled back the curtain and stepped out of the tub, and—

"Jesus Christ!" he shouted, jumping back behind the curtain when he realized Arthur was standing there, leaning in the doorway. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Standing," Arthur replied simply. "Stop being such a pussy."

"Forgive me," Eames complained, grabbing a towel to wrap around his waist before stepping out behind the curtain, "if I don't want my junk hanging out in front of other people."

"That's not what your problem is," Arthur said with a smirk, coming into the bathroom further as if to spite Eames and shutting the door. "It's only because I'm so young. You think it's inappropriate, but really that's stupid because once you hit puberty your junk kind of stays the same until you get old."

"I don't know if your anatomy theories are quite correct," Eames said flatly. "Why the bloody hell are you in here?"

"You didn't lock the door, so I figured I could," Arthur said, and Eames had to remind himself that Arthur clearly didn't have household etiquette and probably had never had a reason to. "I thought I would thank you for letting me stay here."

"You could have waited until I got out of the bath," Eames said.

"Technically, I did," Arthur replied.

"Good point," Eames said. "How about you run along now so I can brush my teeth and get dressed, and then we'll have breakfast—"

Arthur shoved him up against the sink, hand planted square in the middle of his chest, and Eames would have easily fought him off if he'd expected it. He met eyes with Arthur, and any words he'd been intending to say were left just behind his teeth. Arthur's eyes were black, and all Eames could do was question with his own eyes because his mouth wasn't working.

"Thanks," Arthur said and dropped to his knees.

Eames gasped, hands gripping to the sink when Arthur wrapped his mouth around his cock, taking him right down without any warning. The towel he'd wrapped around himself lay bunched in the floor; he'd never even realized Arthur had tugged it off.

…which really, he shouldn't have even bothered to think about because clearly _Arthur was sucking his cock_. There was so much wrong with what was happening that he couldn't even form words.

Arthur, sixteen-year-old Arthur, _sixteen years old_ , was rolling his tongue under the underside of his prick, and even though he hadn't been hard at first, Arthur seemed to know exactly how to make it that way. Wherever his mouth couldn't reach, he'd wrapped his fist around and was jerking it in rhythm with his mouth… and he never looked away from Eames the entire time, his gaze locked with Eames's while he hollowed out his cheeks around him. Why was he doing this? More importantly, why was Eames _letting_ him do it?

Eames started to make a move to pull away, but then Arthur hummed around his dick, and suddenly he couldn't move. He hadn't had sex in about seven months, with a girl Yusuf had introduced him to but ultimately hadn't been able to hold his interest for more than one night, and he hadn't been sucked off since he couldn't even remember… and Arthur was damned _good_ at it too, unbelievably so. Eames was choking back on sounds before he even realized he was making them, heat filling him up from head to toe. He thought for a moment that he was going to break the sink off of the wall…

…and then he remembered just _what_ was happening, and he shouted, jerking his hips away from Arthur who didn't put up too much fight to let him go only because it was already too late. White, hot come released itself across Arthur's face, beading in his hair, and the boy was fucking _smiling_ like he'd wanted it to happen.

"Wow, you're pretty spry to be in your thirties," Arthur laughed, stroking his fingers through the mess and sucking them clean. He was most definitely enjoying himself. "I admire that in a man."

"Are you out of your fucking _mind_?" Eames hissed, grabbing Arthur by the arm and pulling him up onto his feet. "What the fuck were you _thinking_?"

There were still strands of come dripping off of Arthur's hair. It was mildly distracting. "You can't just… _do_ those things," Eames whispered fiercely as if there were people listening from every wall. "God damn it, I can't believe that you—"

"Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you," Arthur said, and he was still grinning cheekily, not at all ashamed. "I've seen the way you look at me. You can't pretend you didn't want it."

"You're a bloody _demon_ is what you are," Eames growled. "The whole angel face of yours, that's just a façade. You fucking tricked me."

"I didn't trick you. That would have required an amount of effort," Arthur replied smugly as he picked the towel up off of the floor and finally cleaned the mess off of his face. "Don't get all freaked out."

"You… you sucked my cock," Eames said, as if Arthur hadn't been aware. "I didn't even give you permission to—"

"I guess not," Arthur responded, tossing Eames the towel, "but if we were to go toe to toe in court, I wonder what the judge would believe happened."

"You bastard," Eames said darkly.

"Relax. I'm not going to tell anyone. Consider it services exchanged on behalf of allowing me to stay here. I'm being a nice houseguest is all."

"Nice… nice houseguests do chores and clean up after themselves—"

"You can act upset all you want, but you enjoyed it. There's spunk on that towel and in my mouth to prove it."

"You can't—the body reacts to—it didn't have anything to do with you!"

Arthur was laughing. The brat didn't seem to understand the seriousness of the situation, no matter how much Eames tried to make it clear. He had never had such a strong urge to hit someone in his entire life. Eames didn't even have words.

His laugh really shouldn't have been so fucking charming.

"Seriously," Arthur chuckled, wiping away tears of mirth from his eyes, but all the laughter immediately stopped when he saw the look on Eames's face. He cleared his throat and started again, "Seriously… would you just relax? _I'm not going to tell anyone_. It was fun, all right? It's not like I haven't done it before with guys older than you."

" _What_?" Eames asked, at a loss. "How can you just say that so casually? Jesus Christ!"

Arthur's expression shifted then, unreadable, and then he said hesitantly, "I… like you. Don't you like me?"

"This isn't high school," Eames grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"So you don't like me."

"I didn't say that."

"Well, do you or don't you?"

Eames sighed in frustration. " _Yes_ , okay? I _like_ you. I wouldn't have let you come here if I didn't."

"So what's the problem?" Arthur asked, his entirely-too-precious little smile creeping back onto his face.

"I don't think I need to remind you that you happen to be _sixteen_ , do I? God, you're not even old enough to drink. You're barely old enough to drive," Eames grumbled.

"Age is just a number," Arthur replied, slouching against the wall and looking even younger as if to spite him, "and I happen to be very mature for my age."

"You're unbelievable," Eames said in exasperation, moving to leave the bathroom at last, shaking his head. "We are _not_ doing this again, understand?"

"Does that mean I can still stay here?" Arthur asked, mockingly innocent as he trailed along behind Eames.

Eames didn't dignify his teasing with a response, choosing instead to get dressed and skip breakfast.

He left Arthur standing in the foyer, still smiling that devilish little smile and looking far too charming.

He was beginning to think he'd made a massive, _massive_ mistake… but all the same he couldn't go back on it now. Arthur was a little shit, but he was still a kid… Besides, maybe he was just misguided. Actually, he was surely, most definitely misguided. Eames had gathered that Arthur had sucked cock before (since he'd told him so), and maybe he was under the impression that it was the only way he could connect with people. He'd been so alone for so long, he'd probably had to do some things he wasn't proud of to get by. Eames just needed to help him get back to living normally. All Arthur needed was a little help.

…and Eames didn't need any help. He wasn't flustered or just a little bit curious about what else the boy could do with his mouth or any of that nonsense.

Really.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Eames is a burned out university professor who goes to the park for lunch to get away from the chaos of his life. There he meets 16-year-old Arthur and begins to befriend him for his ability to have an intelligent conversation with him. When he discovers the boy is homeless, he decides to take care of him, but things with Arthur get more complicated than he could ever expect.

Part Three

Eames would have liked to have locked himself in his office, being that he'd made it to school early. He would have liked having a little time to himself to think about what had transpired that morning (because it wasn't as cut and dry as Arthur seemed to think it was), but Yusuf caught him before he could slip away.

"Whore!" Yusuf exclaimed in disdain, and in a momentary panic Eames illogically thought he was talking about Arthur, but then he continued. "Fuck, why did you have to be _right_ about her, Eames? She was so bloody _perfect_ …"

"Oh," Eames caught himself saying but Yusuf was too caught up in his own problems to notice. "Sorry to hear about that, mate."

"She only asked me out because she lost a bet," Yusuf said dejectedly. "How bloody awful is that? You shouldn't treat people that way. It's just wrong."

"I tried to warn you," Eames said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry it didn't work out though, really."

"I am telling you, Eames. I am telling you right now—do _not_ get involved with young people. They will fucking use you up and wring you dry."

Eames felt a pit drop in his stomach and swallowed heavily. He wasn't sure why. He wasn't involved with anyone.

"I swear, Eames, from here on out, I'm only looking for girls my own age. No more shall I be tempted by the buxom young harpies that try to sink their claws into me."

"Not that many 'buxom young harpies' have attempted to," Eames reminded, and Yusuf shushed him.

"Oh, fuck off," Yusuf complained. "I'm trying to be a good person here and not be led into temptation, and you're mocking me."

"No, no, you're right," Eames replied, "young people _are_ dangerous." That was one thing he was sure of. In fact, he had a feeling Yusuf had no idea what he was talking about compared to Eames.

Eames wasn't really sure how he felt about that.

"Very funny," Yusuf grumbled, clearly under the impression that he was still teasing. Eames decided not to correct him for the moment. "Can we talk about something besides my romantic woes?"

"Hey, you started it," Eames said with a shrug. "Don't get all sore at me."

"Yeah, I get it, I get it," Yusuf sighed, following Eames into his office and plopping down at one of the chairs squashed in the corner. "So, how did your evening go last night? I certainly hope it fared better than mine did."

The pit in Eames's stomach grew deeper, but he knew how to act like it didn't exist. He really did deserve some sort of academy award. "Oh, you know," he said coolly, "uneventful. Same old, same old. I just ah… had some tea and then off to bed. Yesterday was a little tiring."

"We need to have another guy's night sometime," Yusuf decided, crossing his arms across his chest. "You've been skipping out on having lunch with me. Maybe this weekend I can drop by and we can watch some movies or something."

"Ah… I'll ah, get back to you about that," Eames said, reminding himself not to show even a flinch or Yusuf would be full of non-stop questions. "I've got a lot of papers to grade still."

"Oh, don't I know it," Yusuf sighed. "It's bloody miserable. Sometimes I think about just quitting and backpacking across the world and not caring about anything but good times and good women."

"Keep dreaming, Yusuf."

Yusuf scoffed. "Don't mock my dreams! They're good dreams!"

Eames just wished he still had dreams.

* * *

Eames wasn't too proud to admit that he thought of Arthur throughout the entirety of play auditions.

It started with his horror over what had happened that morning (albeit it had slackened just a little bit; he'd come to accept the fact that he couldn't undo what had been done). After he had dwelled on that for a while, he started to wonder just why he had brought Arthur into his home in the first place…

He was smart.

Well… not exactly. He was very bright for his age, and this was even more impressive with the fact that he'd had no formal schooling, but… well, Eames had been terribly impressed by him over a couple of crackpot theories and fancy words. They weren't all that insightful, he realized, looking back on it. Admittedly, Eames had started to lose faith in the latest generation, being that his students (minus a few exceptions) were absolute morons… Perhaps that was why when Arthur showed a hint of intelligence, Eames had pounced onto him— pounced onto his _ideas_.

He was all alone.

That, _that_ was true. Arthur had said so himself that he'd been alone since he was twelve… That is, if he hadn't been _lying_. He was perfectly capable of making things up, and his story was a little bit unbelievable. Eames couldn't necessarily prove he was fibbing at the moment though, so he'd have to do a little investigating. Perhaps a look into that bag he'd brought with him would give him a few clues to the authenticity of his story.

He was beautiful.

…

Well…

Um…

He needed the help.

That… well, technically, he didn't need it. Arthur seemed to be pretty self-sufficient on his own, even though his methods were questionable. He had been living on the streets for quite a few years (if his story was to be believed), and it wasn't like he was weak and diseased. After the boy had showered and changed into a different pair of clothes, he looked nearly like any other teenager. He was a little thin, yes, but most people could chock that up to being scrawny. Hell, he didn't even have dental issues. Physically, he was perfectly _fine_.

Mentally though… He definitely needed some help there. His perspective was disturbingly warped if the way he viewed sex was any indication. He clearly had some issues about how he was supposed to behave, how _people_ were supposed to behave. He had no idea what the social norms were. People did not just suck other people's cocks for _fun_ , especially when one of said parties was _sixteen_ … Arthur had acted like _Eames_ was the one with the problem after it had happened and very casually threatened him when even the _idea_ that Eames could tell someone presented itself… and Eames had no doubt in his mind that Arthur was telling the truth when he'd said he'd done it before. He had swallowed him down with a sureness and certainty that no clumsy, inexperienced teenager should ever have.

He felt sorry for him.

Well, he did. If his story was to be believed, and even if certain aspects of it weren't to be believed, his life clearly hadn't gone all that well. Considering how intelligent he was for his age, he knew so little about how he was supposed to act. Those dark eyes of his had seen so much, and Eames couldn't even begin to comprehend just what was included in that. It hurt him that someone so young was so _damaged_.

…and what was with that dislike of having things around his neck, anyway?

Somehow amongst all of that, he still managed to catch a couple of the good auditions, particularly young Robert Fischer's dramatic reading (he'd most definitely be getting the lead). He was a bit surprised by the turnout and the amount of talent that presented itself. Maybe not all of his students were lost causes. Even Ariadne showed some definite promise as an actress (though he was sure she'd come to auditions mostly because he promised extra credit to the students who attended and that model-faced Robert Fischer was very much available as of last week when he previous girlfriend transferred to a new university).

He left in semi-better spirits, but on the bus ride home he got sweaty palms over the idea that Arthur might not even be there. What if he had skipped off to the police and claimed that this man had been holding him hostage in his house and forced him to do sexual favors? He wasn't sure _why_ Arthur would do something like that, but there was most definitely the possibility that he was just a vindictive little brat that got his jollies off of hurting people. There was no way Eames could know for sure, and that was probably why the thought came to mind.

It turned out his fears were ungrounded though because when he opened the door, Arthur was still there, sprawled out on the couch with a book and wearing a different shirt than he had been that morning. If that and the strong scent of Eames's cologne were any indication, Arthur had taken another bath.

"Hey, you're back," Arthur said, shutting the book with a loud clap. He looked surprisingly happy to see him. "Awesome. Can you teach me how to use the stove?"

"Ah… sure, later," Eames said awkwardly.

Arthur pulled a face. "You're not still all freaked out over what happened this morning, are you?"

Eames grunted in response before saying, "You mean what _you_ did?"

Arthur cracked that same boyish grin he always did, and said, "Yeah, that. Didn't I tell you to calm down about it? I just gave you what you wanted."

"I _didn't_ want that. If I had wanted that, I wouldn't be nearly so upset about it."

"All right," Arthur said lightly, "Maybe I just misread you. I've never been wrong before, but I guess there's a first time for everything."

"You're a smartarse," Eames growled in agitation. "I'm not attracted to teenage boys."

 _Even if they are beautiful_.

He was glad that Arthur couldn't read minds. He could control his words, but he couldn't control his thoughts.

"Well, doesn't everyone say that it's what's on the inside that matters?" Arthur asked, crawling off the couch to follow Eames into the kitchen. "What's the big to-do about _age_ anyways? I mean, if I'm old enough to ejacu—"

"Boys your age shouldn't be having sex with—"

"We didn't have sex. I gave you a blow job, but we didn't have sex. No, I don't do the whole 'penetration' thing."

Eames turned to look at Arthur, perched on the counter with his ankles crossed, and the lilac shirt he was wearing had slid down on the left side all the way to his elbow. "Why are you like this?" Eames asked, at a loss. "Why do you feel this way?"

"I'm a revolutionary," Arthur replied simply, as if he was completely serious.

"You're full of shit is what you are," Eames replied. "You're off your nutter. There's nothing revolutionary about giving blow jobs to dirty old men for fun. It's just wrong."

Arthur's smile vanished from his face. "I never just…" he sighed through his nose. "Look, I'm _sorry_ , okay? I really thought that you wanted me, and I just made a mistake. Can't we just… move on now? I mean, it's really not as big a deal as you think it is."

"I think you are underestimating the size of the problem rather than me overestimating."

"I didn't _film_ it. I didn't go running to the fuzz—in fact, I hate the cops. You didn't force me to do anything, and I didn't cry and try to run away. I enjoyed myself. I like you, Eames. I'm not going to sell you out or anything, so why don't we just have some _fun_ while we're together—"

Eames couldn't take it anymore, clamping his hands over Arthur's mouth. He only did it until he saw Arthur's eyes grow wide with panic and then released him. "Stop treating this like a game," Eames said tensely. "I took you in because I like you, and I was worried about you, and I clearly have a reason to be."

"You don't—" Arthur tried to interrupt, but Eames interrupted him right back.

"Arthur, why were you even living in the streets? Why didn't you stay in the shelters or go into foster care? Why didn't you go find some other relative to stay with?"

Arthur's lip trembled a little, and he apparently didn't have a response for that question. His way of thinking wasn't quite so revolutionary after all, Eames guessed. His eyes dipped to the floor, and he tugged aimlessly at a sock, worrying his bottom lip under his teeth, his eyelashes fluttering as he blinked slowly.

"Why?" Eames repeated again, gentler this time.

"…I don't know…" Arthur said, and it wasn't an answer, but Eames let it go because he just looked so _pitiful_.

"Oh…" Eames sighed, pulling him into a hug, "come here. Don't get all bent out of shape over it. You're not obligated to answer, after all. We do live in America, so you're free to keep silent about it."

Arthur rested the side of his cheek against Eames's neck, arms encircling his shoulders, smelling of shampoo and too much cologne and still a twinge of dirt that must have been ingrained in him by now. Eames petted his hair gently, it a little greasy from being washed without getting all of the shampoo out. He felt Arthur's breath puff out of his nose as if in a frustrated sigh onto the skin of his neck, prickling the hairs there.

"Don't you ever get lonely?" Arthur asked vulnerably, his voice so quiet that Eames for a moment wasn't sure if he'd actually said it or if it had been only in his head.

"I do… yes…" Eames responded just as quietly. "Sometimes I feel like I've been lonely my whole life."

Arthur pulled away from Eames's shoulder to look at him then with those same entrancing dark, dark eyes that he'd caught him with before. Eames had apparently not learned to fight the gaze off…

…but Arthur didn't do anything. He just… _nodded_ in response, like he understood _exactly_ what Eames meant, like he too had experience the same loneliness and isolation that Eames hadn't realized had been weighing him down for years.

Arthur didn't do anything.

Eames did.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss, just a small kiss against the boy's lips, thumb brushing against his cheekbone, and Arthur hesitated for only a moment before tilting his head and kissing him back, eyelashes fluttering closed.

Eames inhaled sharply through his nose, taking Arthur's face in both hands, deepening that little kiss until it wasn't so little anymore, both of them taking gasps for air only as they moved, Arthur's fingers gripping into the cuffs of the shirt he was wearing and then into Eames's hair, and they were pressing their chests together, and Arthur was making a small sound, and Eames was gripping him at his waist, pulling him closer to the edge of the counter, and…

…that was when he stopped himself, breaking away but only to stay nose to nose with Arthur, breathing raggedly. Arthur tilted his chin up and pressed one more kiss to his lips before pulling Eames back into their embrace.

Eames swore he could feel Arthur's heart beating against his own.

"I'm sorry," Eames said, only then noticing the way Arthur had wrapped his legs around his waist as if he was holding onto everything that he was. Arthur pressed a kiss to his cheek and then rested the side of his face against his as if to hold that kiss there for as long as possible while also savoring some of the innocence of it.

They stayed that way for far too long, and then Eames released himself from the embrace, and the spell was broken. Mostly.

"So, ah, you wanted to learn how to use the oven, yeah?" he asked, moving as far across the kitchen from the boy as he could bear to.

It took Arthur a couple of long seconds for him to come out of his haze before nodding and stammering, "Y—yeah, um… I didn't want to set the house on fire, so I just ate pudding cups, but uh… I'd prefer to have a real lunch. I could probably figure it out on my own, but… you know… it's not my place, so um…"

He let the sentence drift off and slid off of the counter onto slightly wobbly legs so that he could walk over and stare senselessly into the cupboard.

"What do you want to eat for supper, hm?" Eames asked, gesturing to the food before tugging uncomfortably at his collar. The tension in the air would serve as good topping for their bread, he thought, considering how he could likely cut it with a knife.

Arthur wandered into the cupboard, looking like a lost puppy, tugging his shirt back up onto his shoulder only for it to fall down again, and then he looked back at Eames and said, "Forget it. I can learn how to use the oven tomorrow. How about we just order a pizza or something?"

"Y—yeah, I can do that," Eames said. "That sounds just fine… um… yes, that's fine. Pizza. Yes. Uh… what did you want on your pizza, exactly?"

"Whatever is fine," Arthur said. "Whatever you like, I'm sure it's fine…"

Eames ordered the typical pepperoni and cheese, and the two ate it in silence, staring at the television set. It was one of those crime shows at first, but then the inspector or whoever it was started talking about the molestation of a fourteen-year-old girl, and Eames had to change the channel to some stupid sitcom that neither of them paid all that much attention to.

After the pizza was gone though, they had nothing with which to occupy their mouths.

Arthur was the first to break the silence.

"So… how was work?"

"The same as always," Eames said, suddenly tired when he thought about work. "My students don't make any effort to understand anything I'm trying to teach them, and they don't appreciate any effort I put forth. They don't respect me and don't care that their degrees are meaningless without the knowledge to back them up, and I'm extremely terrified of what that means for our future doctors and lawyers and whatnot… but, well, play tryouts went better than expected, at least. That's something."

"Why didn't you try to be an actor, Eames?" Arthur asked, pressing his chin onto Eames's shoulder in a seemingly innocent manner. Eames didn't know his actual intentions, but he was too exhausted to shrug him off.

"I did try," Eames informed him. "I guess I just wasn't _right_ for the parts I went for, or maybe I was just bloody terrible, I don't know… but I had a degree in psychology from my time at the university, so I decided to become a teacher. I always loved being around people who wanted to learn. I loved watching the excitement on people's faces when they solved a problem or the wonder in their eyes when they came across a new piece of information. I loved the drive to move forward that students used to have, that _I_ had when I was a student… but now…

"Well… now it's like the only thing they care about is money. The school doesn't give out many scholarships, so only the rich arseholes who don't ever want for anything in their lives attend my classes. It's a bloody shame is what it is. I guess because I was so fascinated by it, I can't comprehend why human beings don't want to understand why they do the things that they do. How can someone just go through life not wanting to know anything? To just… breeze by without a single thought?"

"That sucks," Arthur spat, as if he could understand Eames's disdain for them. Maybe he could.

"It really does," Eames said, and he smiled genuinely for what felt like the first time in years. "Do you want to take a look at their papers with me?"

Somehow, that question cut all of the tension out of them. They ended up taking the papers and choosing one at a time to do a dramatic reading of, peppering in accents (which Eames was good at and Arthur wasn't) and a lot of laughter and off the cuff insulting jokes (which they were both ridiculously good at).

It made grading them a lot easier, and he was surprisingly not as harsh on them being that he wasn't in an absolutely miserable mood. It was only as he was putting his last mark on his last paper that he looked down to find that Arthur had fallen asleep with his head on his thigh, gangly legs dangling over the edge of the couch, one hand underneath the shirt to splay across his abdomen, the other up by his face.

Eames brushed his hand through the fringe of Arthur's hair again, combing his fingers through the strands. Arthur mumbled, shifting a little, and then his eyes opened sleepily to look up at him. A lazy, crooked smile worked its way onto his face, and Eames swore his heart stopped for a second.

"All tuckered out, are you?" Eames asked, voice a bit hoarser than he expected.

"Will you buy me some cigarettes tomorrow on your way home?" Arthur asked, eyelids seeming to threaten to shut again. "I ran out."

"I'll see what I can do," Eames said, fingers moving from his hair to touch that same cheekbone he had earlier. "Do you want some clothing too?"

"Uh-huh…" Arthur sighed, head falling limp against his leg again as he drifted off to sleep again.

Eames gently removed himself from the couch and tucked a pillow under Arthur's head in his place. He lowered a blanket over him and moved to his room and leaned heavily against the door once he was safely inside.

"What the fuck am I _doing_?" he asked the air and then collapsed into his bed fully clothed.

* * *

When he woke up at 4:30 in the morning, Arthur wasn't on the couch.

He pretended that he didn't notice he wasn't there.

The shower came on.

He pretended that he didn't hear it and moved into the kitchen to fix a pot of tea. He also pretended that he didn't look at the counter where Arthur had sat the night before, where he had kissed the boy in some bizarre moment of weakness.

The pot had just started to whistle when he turned around and saw Arthur standing there, naked and dripping wet. It startled him to the point that he had to grab hold of the counter. "Arthur?" he said unsurely.

"I couldn't find the towels," Arthur said, shifting from one foot to the other. "I… I would have yelled for you, but I didn't know if you were asleep, and I didn't want you to be mad at me for waking you up, so…"

Eames moved the kettle off of the burner, trying not to look directly at him, though it wasn't easy. "Ah… in the cupboard on the other side of the bath."

"Thanks," Arthur said, turning away, avoiding the puddles he'd left on his way there so that he wouldn't slip.

Eames took in a deep breath and counted to ten before letting it out and did what he could to ignore the way his cock jumped in his trousers. He did it a second time and then a third time, and then Arthur was back, with a towel around his waist, one around his shoulders, and one at his feet where he was mopping up the puddles. "I'm really sorry," he said, voice squeaking a little bit. "I just didn't know, and please don't be mad…"

"It's fine," Eames said, trying not to sound as breathless as he was. "Do you want some tea?"

"Um… I guess so…" He toweled his hair so as to avoid eye contact. "I don't really drink tea, but… I mean, you British guys like it, so I guess you'd know how to make it. I guess I should go get dressed first, or… or something."

"Y… yeah…" Eames said.

Arthur vanished into the bathroom again, and only when he heard the door shut did Eames breathe a sigh of relief.

Well, so much for the tension vanishing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Eames is a burned out university professor who goes to the park for lunch to get away from the chaos of his life. There he meets 16-year-old Arthur and begins to befriend him for his ability to have an intelligent conversation with him. When he discovers the boy is homeless, he decides to take care of him, but things with Arthur get more complicated than he could ever expect.

Part Four

When Eames arrived at the school that morning, he was sure he looked at least a little bit out of sorts. He'd jerked off in the shower and hurried out the door with his hair still wet because he didn't (or rather _couldn't_ ) want to be around Arthur long enough to bring up the night before and say something he'd regret.

…as if he didn't have to face him when he got back home…

It wasn't like he'd forgotten that.

At least he had some time to think about it while he was at work, choose his words carefully, explain that he'd made a mistake and it would be another thing they would not be doing again.

Oddly enough though, Arthur seemed as uncomfortable by the kiss as Eames was when he thought back on it. Maybe Arthur's awkwardness that morning hadn't been imagined, and he was as eager to pretend it didn't happen as Eames was. Maybe.

Unfortunately, the weight of his thoughts didn't go without notice for, when he was hanging up casting results in the hallway, Ariadne caught him by the arm and said, "Professor Eames… Hey, uh… are you okay?"

Eames tried not to look taken aback by the sudden inquiry, put on his best smile and said, "Of course."

"You just seemed a little out of it in class today is all, and you look really tired. Not that it's any of my business, but… is something going on at home?"

Eames fought back the urge to immediately answer 'no' and thus look more suspicious. Instead he said, "Well, thank you for taking the time to notice and inquire, but I assure you that I'm fine. I live on my own, Ariadne, so there's certainly nothing going on there."

Well, she'd said so herself that it was none of her business.

"It's about the class then, isn't it," Ariadne said dismally.

Eames blinked, pursed his lips. "The class?"

"Yeah, about how awful they're being. I mean, yeah, the majority of them showed up today, but it pisses me off that none of them ever pay attention. I think your classes are fascinating, Mr. Eames." He was surprised by how bitter she sounded.

"I appreciate that," Eames said honestly. It had been so long since he'd heard that anywhere but his own head. "Don't worry your pretty little head over me, Ariadne. I just didn't sleep well last night. I had a bad bought of insomnia, you know, and ended up fighting with myself the entire night. I'm sure I'll sleep like a little baby tonight."

She placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled subtly and said, "Take care of yourself, Mr. Eames."

Eames watched her walk away, running a hand through his hair, and he wondered if he was capable of such a feat.

He stayed inside his own head after that, barely managing a nod of acknowledgement when Robert Fischer approached him to thank him for giving him the lead role. His thoughts were filled with Arthur and that kiss, the way he'd been completely unable to stop it when he felt the spark in his system. It really had made him feel less… lonely…

He didn't even go out to the park for lunch that day because it was too cold, and frankly, he didn't really feel all that hungry. He was picking at his lunch, hunched in his office chair, when Yusuf came in with his own lunch. "Oh, you _do_ care," Yusuf said, plopping down to dig out his Tupperware to toss into the microwave. "Here I thought we'd never have lunch together again."

"I just needed to get out of this place," Eames explained as he often did to Yusuf. "I needed some time to myself."

"I know, I know, but I certainly missed the company." The microwave beeped, and Yusuf dug out the bowl, popped the top, and started to eat.

They ate in a companionable silence for a little while, but Eames's thoughts were so heavily reliant on Arthur that he couldn't help but blurt out, "How old were you when you first had sex?"

Yusuf, God bless him, wasn't disturbed by the question in the slightest, merely furrowing his brows in concentration as he tried to remember. "Ah, yes, I was eighteen. My girlfriend at the time took my virginity for my birthday. It was brill."

"How old was she?"

"Eighteen. She was a couple of months older than me. Why?"

"I ah—I was thinking about doing a study on the sexualization of young people over time," Eames lied. "You know… something to occupy my time once Christmas Break begins."

"Oh," Yusuf said, shrugging. "I'm sure there have already been plenty of studies on that, Eames."

"It's just for fun," Eames assured him.

"Research over Christmas Break does not sound like my idea of fun," Yusuf said, shaking his head, "even if it does involve looking at oodles of internet porn. You need to get out and have some fun, Eames, and by fun I mean _real_ fun. You and I are going drinking at Christmas parties, dancing with lovely ladies, spending too much money, and hopefully getting laid. You shouldn't deny yourself of the pleasures of the world, Eames. You used to be so bright and snarky and the life of the party. Now you just hole up in that place of yours and never see anyone."

It stung, even though Eames already knew all of that. He hadn't realized it had gotten quite that bad though… and he didn't realize it had gotten so _obvious_ … then again, Arthur had noticed, and Arthur hadn't known him nearly as long as Yusuf had. Arthur had told him not to deny himself of things by not admitting to what he wanted… but he didn't know what he wanted…

At least, not necessarily…

"I'm just awful in the winter," Eames said as an excuse, and even he thought it was a weak one. "I'll be better in the summer."

"I sure hope so, Eames. You're fading away. I've been worried about you. I gave you some space because I thought you needed some time, but you haven't gotten any better. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help you, mate."

"I appreciate it, Yusuf," Eames said. "You're a good friend."

"You're damned right I am," Yusuf agreed, grinning. "Seriously though, get some enjoyment in your life, Eames. You're wearing yourself thin."

"I'll keep that in mind," Eames replied and finally managed to really dig into his lunch.

"By the way, when did you lose your virginity, since we're sharing secrets like that?" Yusuf asked curiously, decidedly changing the subject, and Yusuf was the only one who could ask Eames such a question and it not be awkward in the least. Yusuf was always so innocently curious about the world, always had been, always would be.

Still, Eames had to think about it. "I was… huh… I was sixteen."

He was Arthur's age.

He'd completely forgotten about that.

"Yeah," Eames continued, holding back his surprise over this realization to the best of his ability, "my tutor, Reina Winkle and I just kind of ended up doing it once. She was a year ahead of me and pretty in that awkward way… I wonder whatever happened to her…"

"It must not have been very good if you didn't even remember it until now," Yusuf snorted.

"Two virgins clumsily pulling at each other's clothes? I would think not," Eames chuckled. Still, it had been a particularly unsatisfying experience, like much of the sex Eames had had. He'd started to assume that maybe he'd just gotten too excited about the prospect from his friends and then when it didn't live up to the hype he was eternally disappointed. His friends had told him that he would orgasm so hard that he would see God. He had barely managed to get to the orgasm at all, and it was far from any sort of divine experience. To this day he had yet to experience it the way he'd been told he would.

It had been his friend Jules who had said that, smiling his slightly gapped teeth at him, crinkling his blue-green eyes, now that he thought about it. God, he had been something else. Eames had idolized that boy… He'd been so beautiful and perfect, a fucking _powerhouse_ on the football field (not what the Americans called football of course but real football). Eames had followed him around constantly, and Jules, God bless him, didn't ever mind… Still, Eames had gone through every effort to impress him. The whole reason he'd slept with Reina was because he wanted the congratulations and the smack on the back that Jules had given his other friends for losing their virginity. When Jules had gotten a scholarship and left, Eames had cried hard, full of regret for all that never had been.

…What had that regret been, anyway?

It wasn't like he didn't completely know.

"You all right there, Eames?" Yusuf asked.

"What? Oh… yes. Fine. Just tired."

Jules had always been straight.

* * *

Eames arrived home late, carrying a couple of bags of clothing for Arthur (they were cheap but somewhat stylish and not nearly as dirty and holey as his other clothes), and a pack of cigarettes.

"Arthur?" he called out when he didn't see him around. He dropped the things on the couch and checked the bathroom and then the kitchen. He wasn't in either of them, nor was he out on the balcony. Of course, that only left one place for him to check.

He found Arthur curled up in the middle of his bed, in another of his shirts, this time crisp and angelic white.

Eames knelt over him and touched his shoulder. "Arthur," he said quietly, and the boy stirred, rolling onto his back to look up at him with bedroom eyes. Eames did his best to ignore it. "What are you doing in here, pet?"

Arthur blushed in embarrassment, and it was the most youthful expression Eames had seen on him besides that smile of his. "Um… well…"

"Forget it," Eames said, backing away from him when he realized how close he was to his face. "What do you want for supper, hm?"

"I don't know… whatever…" Arthur said, crawling off of the bed. Eames shouldn't have noticed that he wasn't wearing socks, padding around barefooted in his home like he was fucking Peter Pan. "Something good."

"That narrows it down," Eames said with a smirk. "How about spaghetti and meatballs? I have a special recipe my friend from school once taught me. It's quite good."

Arthur smiled, and if Eames had been a weaker man, he would have melted.

…Maybe he did melt… just a little bit.

He had kissed that mouth after all. Arthur and he had kissed in the very same kitchen they were standing in now, Arthur clumsily pressing his mouth into Eames to kiss him back as if he'd never done it before, not once. The boy who had given him a blow job like he'd been doing it for years had kissed Eames as if he'd never done it before.

Eames stirred the sauce in the pan, glancing over his shoulder as Arthur dragged in the bags of clothes to look at them, smiling in satisfaction over each article and folding them gingerly. "You didn't have to get me so much," Arthur said. "I really only needed two shirts, two pairs of pants, and two pairs of underwear."

"Well, I got you three pairs of jeans, a pair of nice trousers, four long-sleeved shirts, three short-sleeved ones, and a cardigan, and you'll wear all of them. I'm assuming you prefer boxers over briefs since you won't stop wearing mine, so I bought you a pack of those too."

"Why'd you get all of this?"

"You need something to wear if you intend to do anything besides lay around this flat all day. It wasn't expensive so don't worry about it. You like them, don't you?"

"Normally I have to lift something from the goodwill to get something this nice," Arthur said, and he genuinely meant that as a compliment. It made Eames's heart ache. "Thanks."

"…You're welcome…"

By the time Eames had finished cooking, Arthur had disappeared into the house with his new clothes and reappeared without them and smoked through three cigarettes. They sat down to eat together, and Eames even had a couple of glasses of wine. He gave Arthur cola.

"Why can't I drink wine?" Arthur complained. "Are you so selfish that you're not going to share?"

"You're not old enough to drink wine," Eames replied simply.

"Ugh… Don't they let people drink as long as they can fucking _reach_ the bar in your homeland? Jeez, who are you trying to remind of my age, me or you?"

Eames ignored the second question and instead answered the clearly rhetorical first. "We're not _in_ my homeland, darling. I understand that as a teenager you feel the need to rage against that machine, but—"

"Um… if I may interrupt… You do realize that we're in an enclosed space, right? One that is neither currently occupied nor surrounded by police officers? You own this place. You can do whatever the hell you want here."

"That doesn't mean that _you_ can do whatever _you_ want," Eames said and took another bite of spaghetti.

"Whatever," Arthur mumbled, pouting just a little before shoveling another mouthful of food into his mouth.

"Oh, don't give me that attitude," Eames said, laughing. "You're not going to trick me into giving you wine. Why don't you try acting like—"

"Like what?" Arthur asked, and suddenly he seemed angry. "Like a _normal_ teenager?"

Eames opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur stood, and he was most definitely angry. "Maybe I'm _not_ normal!" he shouted and knocked his plate onto the floor. The porcelain crashed loudly against the linoleum tile. "Maybe it's not as fucking simple as you telling me what to do! I do things because I want to! I never let myself be _forced_ to do shit!"

By the end of it, Eames was wondering if Arthur was trying to convince Eames or…

Arthur stomped off and closed himself in the bathroom with a slam of the door.

Eames swept up the porcelain and wiped up the mess on the floor before going to the bathroom door and knocking. He half-expected the boy to shout at him to go away, but that didn't happen.

The door cracked open after a few minutes, and Arthur stood there, looking ashamed of himself… and terribly, terribly sad.

Arthur looked up at him, eyes wide and dark as midnight, spilling a million unsaid apologies for the broken plate, for the spoiled meal. His lip quivered just slightly, as if he was fearful, and Eames just slid his arms around him and pulled him to his chest, rocking side to side in the doorway. Arthur sniffed into his shirt, but Eames wasn't sure if he was crying or not. Eames ran his fingers through the back of Arthur's hair before resting them at the nape of his neck.

Arthur's hands slipped up Eames's back, pausing only once they reached his shoulder blades, and that was when he looked up at Eames again, lips parted slightly, a hair's breadth away.

Eames remembered Jules's gap-toothed smile that he'd dreamed about for most of his teenage life. He remembered the way Yusuf had said that he'd been wearing himself thin, disappearing. He remembered how Ariadne had worried about him. He remembered how Arthur had told him to stop denying himself, how Yusuf had said the same damned thing.

…and he was in an enclosed space neither occupied nor surrounded by police officers. He owned the place. He could do whatever he wanted.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to Arthur's, and Arthur opened up for him without hesitation, arms coming to circle around his neck. Arthur had to stand on his tip-toes as he whimpered and let his tongue slip between Eames's teeth. Eames licked against the roof of Arthur's mouth, leaning further over to make it easier on the boy.

When Eames finally broke the kiss, both of them were nearly breathless… but instead of apologizing and retreating, Eames kissed him again, and again Arthur let him, stumbling backwards until his back met the wall, and then Eames was gasping as Arthur kissed his chin and then down his jugular… soft, tiny kisses that were so innocent that Eames remembered what they were doing.

Eames stepped away just a little from the boy so that he would stop, and Arthur looked up at him again, hands pressed firmly against his chest. "Hi," he said, smiling lazily.

"Hi," Eames replied, voice low and gravelly, and whatever he'd been planning to say had been forgotten as he dove back in for another kiss. It was sloppy, filthy, and definitely never the way he'd kissed anyone before.

Arthur jumped, hooking his arms more tightly around his neck and then wrapping his legs around his waist, and Eames could feel the hard line of his erection pressing against his abdomen. He blindly staggered across the room until he reached his bedroom and then collapsed into the bed with him, hand running up underneath his shirt to feel the burning hot skin underneath.

He broke contact and sat back, straddling the boy's waist to look down at him. His mouth was swollen and bitten red, and the shirt he was wearing was so snow white… except for a speckle of red spaghetti sauce, a shocking brightness on the fabric, a blemish on the perfect pallor.

"We… We shouldn't do this," Eames said then, even as his own cock was absolutely _aching_ in his trousers.

"I don't mind it, it's cool, just—" Arthur tried to say, but Eames was shaking his head.

"I… I _can't_. I can't just—It's _wrong_. Everything I've ever known has told me so. Everything my parents and my teachers ever taught me…"

"Is it because I'm sixteen? Or is it because I'm a man?" Arthur asked.

Eames opened his mouth to answer but realized that he couldn't.

"I was in love with a boy once," Eames said instead, and it even hurt his heart to say. "I never told him. I thought something was wrong with me… I know that psychologically, it's—not necessarily—not—that is—but…"

He looked down at Arthur. "I'm not… I'm not doing this just because you're beautiful."

"You just don't want to be lonely anymore," Arthur replied as if he'd been inside Eames's skull all along... as if Eames was so transparent that he could see right through him.

Eames swallowed thickly and nodded. "Y—yeah…"

Arthur spread his arms out around him. "Kiss me."

"No… I can't."

"Yes, you can. I don't mind… I'll take your loneliness away. I know how to—"

Eames ran a finger down Arthur's cheekbone, and he shivered from just that touch alone. "Arthur… may I ask you a personal question?"

"Depends," he replied, eyelashes fluttering. He already looked so wrecked, so gorgeously _wrecked_.

"Did you sell yourself for money?"

Arthur turned his face into Eames's touch. "I gave blow jobs but that's it. You'd be surprised what people would be willing to pay for a little bit of touch…" Arthur reached up and dragged his hand down Eames's chest, stopping right at his belt. "I like it when you touch me, Eames," he said. "Do it."

"I don't want you to… to go out and do that with other men anymore, Arthur. You have the things you need here, all right?"

Arthur snorted in frustration and then lifted his hips against Eames, rubbing against his cock and making him yelp. "Whatever, just… you need to do something about that. It's distracting my hormone-addled teenage mind."

"I won't… I won't have sex with you," Eames told him, but he was wondering if he was trying to convince Arthur or himself. By the way his mind had supplied ' _no matter how much I want to'_ to the end of the sentence, he was inclined to believe it was the latter.

"Fine," Arthur said, shoving Eames off of him so that they were lying next to one another on the bed. "Let's just jack off together then. Nothing wrong with that, right?"

Actually there was plenty wrong with that, but Eames was so overcome with the heat of his arousal that he couldn't clearly think of what exactly it was.

…and besides, Arthur was already tugging down his own boxer shorts, letting his swollen red prick spring forth. "You can touch me if you want," Arthur said, smirking, and _oh_ , Eames wanted to.

"Bloody tease," Eames growled, fumbling with his belt. As soon as he finally had the belt free, Arthur grabbed the waistband of his trousers and unbuttoned and unzipped them. He tugged them down, underwear and all and wrapped his hand around his cock, making Eames choke on a sound. "What are you doing—"

"You jack me, and I'll jack you," Arthur said heatedly. "It's more fun that way."

"This isn't fucking Candy Land," Eames tried to joke, but it was lost in the pant of his voice.

"Want to bet?" Arthur asked and ducked down to lave at the head with the tip of his tongue, licking off beads of pre-come.

Eames shouted, hips bucking against his will. "Bloody hell," he gasped.

"I knew you liked it," Arthur said devilishly. "You sure you don't want to do it? _Mr. Eames_?" The way he said his name was absolutely _obscene_.

Eames shoved him down and kissed him so quickly that he felt their teeth click. Arthur writhed underneath him, pressing up against his thigh and rolling his hips to get some sort of friction and Eames was suddenly rocking down on Arthur's thin thigh as well. He paused in his movement as soon as he was aware of it and wrapped his hand around Arthur's cock, jerking him feverishly, and Arthur yelped, eyes rolling back in his head. "Yes, please—ah—just like that— _ah_ —"

Arthur's hands gripped Eames's ass, and he moaned, and that made Eames's cock spill pre-come against his stomach.

"Hey," Arthur said roughly, "I'm supposed to be the one with a hair trigger here. Aren't I so _young_ and _impressionable_?"

"Don't mock me, you little shite," Eames groaned, tracing a finger along Arthur's bottom lip until the boy decided to take it into his mouth and sucked.

Arthur removed one hand from Eames's ass and started jerking Eames off in the same rhythm that Eames was doing him. The little fucker really _was_ a demon, if that cocky little smirk on his face was any indication, and frankly Eames shouldn't have found it nearly as attractive as he did (admittedly, it probably had a lot to do with the fact that his hands were around his prick).

" _Ah_ —" Arthur squeaked, and that was all he did before all of his muscles clenched and he was spilling messily all over himself.

Eames groaned. Seeing Arthur's ruddy, slack-jawed face was all he needed to make him topple over the edge. White spots filled his vision, and for a moment he forgot that he was even on the earth. He'd never felt anything quite so glorious in his whole fucking _life_ , and he couldn't help but think that this had been what Jules had been talking about when he said he would see God.

When it was over and the fuzziness slowly leaked out of his eyes and ears, he found himself lying on the mattress again, Arthur leaning over him with that boyish little grin on his face.

"We shouldn't have done that," Eames said, but he couldn't stop the stupid grin plastered across his face. "We never should have even come close to doing that…"

"There's a lot of things in the world we shouldn't do," Arthur whispered before he knelt down and kissed him again.

He kissed Eames softly until Eames fell into the deepest sleep he'd ever experienced.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Eames is a burned out university professor who goes to the park for lunch to get away from the chaos of his life. There he meets 16-year-old Arthur and begins to befriend him for his ability to have an intelligent conversation with him. When he discovers the boy is homeless, he decides to take care of him, but things with Arthur get more complicated than he could ever expect.

Part Five

When Eames awoke, it was to a dull ache in his head and a warm lump pressed up against his chest. He wanted to curl up into that heat and go back to sleep, but his mind supplied him with the idea that it was Friday, and he did have a class to get to eventually.

He sighed, rolling onto his back and scrubbing his hands over his eyes. He yawned and checked the time only to discover it was just barely five o'clock, and that was when he remembered.

He remembered what he'd done.

 _Fuck_ , why had he _done_ that?

He shot up, and the arm Arthur had slouched around him dropped from his chest to his waist. The boy didn't sound, didn't move, just kept snoozing so silently that Eames momentarily wondered if he was dead.

Eames looked at him.

His hair was tousled, dark and hanging in loose curls around his eyes and across the pillows. His eyelashes, equally dark, didn't flutter even a little, and his breath puffed out from his slightly parted lips so quietly that Eames couldn't even hear them unless he leaned in close.

God, he was beautiful.

Eames traced a thumb along Arthur's bottom lip, purely for curiosity value because he wasn't _that_ fucked up, _really_.

Arthur made a tiny sound and, unexpectedly Eames felt the tip of his tongue push against the pad of his thumb and then the boy was taking his entire thumb into his mouth and sucking at it. When Eames was able to rip his eyes away from the sight of his mouth around the digit, he managed to look to Arthur's eyes and see that they were wide open and watching Eames for some sort of reaction.

"What are you doing?" Eames asked, though that much was very obvious.

Arthur smiled, teeth pressing against the skin of his thumb on both sides, and Eames tugged it out of his mouth.

"Oh, what?" Arthur asked, pushing himself up on both arms so that he could look down over Eames. "You're not going to go all righteous and self-loathing on me again, are you? You do realize it's just going to lead to another moment like this, right?"

"Oh, God," Eames said, staring up at Arthur like he was a judge on the altar. "You… you _seduced_ me—"

"You started this," Arthur replied, terribly pleased with himself. "Don't try to blame this on me."

"I had been drinking, and you were upset, and—"

Okay, even Eames thought those were some terrible excuses, and the way Arthur was rolling his eyes was proof that he did too. Arthur crawled out of the bed ungracefully and then walked to the window, pushing open the curtains.

"Take a look outside, Mr. Eames," Arthur said smartly.

Eames sighed through his nose and propped himself up on his elbows. "I don't see anything," he mumbled in frustration.

"That's exactly my point," Arthur replied, turning around. Eames couldn't help but take in the lines of his body when he leaned against the window frame. He was so lean and milky white… Eames could still see the lines of his ribs.

"See," Arthur continued, gesturing to the window. "I thought you might need to see this. I thought you might need a visual aide to help you realize that the world's still going on. It didn't end in hellfire and destruction because you slept with me, and the cops didn't come storming to this building, surrounding it and having SWAT shoot up at the windows. Nothing changed. We jerked off each other, you touched me, and no punishment befell you. Are you satisfied now with the idea that God or Buddha or whoever it is you worship doesn't have time to smite you with all the _real_ pedophiles and hebephiles prowling the streets?"

Eames stared blankly for a long moment, just at Arthur's face even though there was plenty more to look at.

Then, he said, "I wasn't going to say that I regretted what we'd done."

"Liar," Arthur replied, moving away from the window to come back towards the bed.

"Okay, _fine_ , maybe I was," Eames said, pausing to lick his lips when Arthur crawled back onto the bed, "but it's not like I can take it back now. What's done has been done."

"Glad you're starting to see things my way," Arthur said, slumping in the bed next to him.

"I'm not," Eames replied, smirking a little in spite of himself. "I'm not going to deny I've done things that have been done, nor am I going to deny that things have been done to me when they have in fact been done."

He thought he saw Arthur flinch a little at that, but he couldn't be sure.

"…and so you shouldn't," Arthur agreed, but there was something in his voice that didn't sound entirely convinced. "So."

"So?"

"So… what do we do now?" Arthur asked. "I bet I can guess what you're going to say."

"Oh? What's that?"

Arthur peppered on a rather sad interpretation of his accent and said, "We are _not_ doing this again."

Eames turned his head so he could look at him directly. "That was a right awful accent, pet. We English don't all sound that snotty, I hope you know."

"Oh, so sorry," Arthur said mockingly, "I'll leave the English to you from this point on. Come on, tell me that I'm right."

"I will not tell you that you're right because you're not, and even if you were I wouldn't dare give you that amount of satisfaction."

"So, we _are_ going to do this again?" Arthur asked, and surprisingly there wasn't a leer to go with it. "That's an interesting turn of events for you."

"I didn't say that."

"Okay, so… enlighten me, professor," Arthur said, folding one arm to lay on while using the other one to walk his fingers up Eames's thigh. "What's going to happen now?"

"I don't know," Eames admitted, sighing. "I don't even know why I—why I did such a thing, why I wanted to."

"Can I theorize?" Arthur asked, fingers wandering up Eames's abdomen.

"I don't see why not."

"You don't have anyone in the whole world and neither do I. I don't believe in 'destiny' or any kind of shit like that, but maybe you and I found each other because we need each other. So what if I'm a teenager? So what if people can't know? What's so wrong with having someone to go to at the end of the day? To like… I don't know, let out your frustrations on so you can fucking sleep at night?"

Eames smiled a little ruefully. "It sounds like bollocks."

"You agree with me, and you know it," Arthur replied. "If you need somebody in your life, I can be that person. In exchange for room and board and all the stuff you've supplied me with, you can have me. It's really all I've got to offer."

"You're offering to be my sex slave. You do realize that, don't you?" Eames asked, partially horrified and partially amused.

"No, I'm not," Arthur responded, chuckling. "We don't have to have sex. You can do whatever you want with me. You can complain about other people, you can yell at me, you can fuck me; I can fuck you if you want me to. I'm just offering my services here. Don't cheapen by saying I don't do anything but have sex for nothing. The absolute _least_ I would be is a prostitute, not a slave. I can leave whenever I want."

"You're not a prostitute," Eames said with disgust, though if his assumptions were correct, that would be the appropriate term. "That makes me sound like some dirty old man."

Arthur crawled on top of him, sat on him, and said with mirth, "you _are_ a dirty old man… but it's okay, because I happen to be just as naughty."

"Little bastard," Eames said.

Arthur leaned over and kissed him. " _Use me_ , motherfucker," he whispered against Eames's lips.

* * *

Eames was late to school that morning. Arthur had occupied him by sucking off his morning wood and taking his damned sweet time doing it too (bloody tease). Almost immediately afterward Arthur had fallen asleep again leaving Eames to rush through breakfast, a shower, getting dressed, and having to catch a cab because he missed the bus.

His students were packing up to leave, thinking he was a no-show, when he burst through the door. "Sit back down," he commanded, waving his hand at them, and they did with sighs of agitation.

He dropped his disorganized mess of supplies onto his desk and then rolled his shoulders. "All right, who's ready to learn about the inner workings of the human mind?" he asked with a rather derisive smile. "If you're not, congratulations, you still get to."

He wrote on the board with a piece of chalk and then turned back to his students. "Today we're going to have a little review session of what we've been learning, and by _we_ I mean _I_ considering most of you haven't had the gall to even show up to class. You're lucky I'm such a nice guy, doing this today. I could just let all of you fall behind and fail miserably."

He wasn't sure what came over him all of a sudden, but he found himself saying, "I mean that when I say you'll fail miserably by the way. How much money your folks make in a year means absolutely nothing to me. There isn't a bribe you can give me or my superiors that will convince me to change your lousy grades because… well, for the love of God, don't you think it might be worth it to actually _learn_ something while you're here? This is a university, and coming here isn't just about drinking until you pass out and dicking around in your rooms. There's a reason while they actually make you come to fucking class, you know."

The class was silent, staring at him with saucer-sized eyes. He cleared his throat and turned back to the board, writing down subjects they would be covering.

He couldn't imagine how he'd managed to say all of that out loud, after he'd kept it inside for so long. Maybe he just felt fearless because what Arthur had said that morning had been right.

He'd done something illegal, something most of society would find absolutely sick and wrong, something religious fanatics would expect him to be burning for, and nothing had happened.

Nothing.

Fuck, Eames was a goddamned _adult_. Arthur was right. He could do _whatever the fuck he wanted_.

"So," Eames said, and this time his smile was genuine. "Let's start at the beginning. Who can give me the definition of psychology?"

* * *

"You're in a good mood," Yusuf mentioned at lunch time.

"Class went well," Eames said, smiling. "I got every one of my students actually writing notes. Whether they study them is none of my business, but at least I got their lazy arses to make an effort."

"Really? How did you manage that?"

"I… told them to," Eames shrugged. "I told them I would fail them if they didn't pay attention because I didn't care about their money."

"You might be getting some complaints then," Yusuf said, throwing his meal into the microwave. "What caused this decision? You've never been quite so ballsy in the past."

"I guess I took what you said about me fading away to heart, Yusuf. I decided not to take it anymore. It's one of those 'the only thing stopping me was me' kind of things, I guess."

"Well, that's good," Yusuf said with a wave. "It's good to see you smile again, Eames."

Eames's smile grew as if just to satisfy Yusuf all the more.

"I don't see why I have to take shit from them, after all," Eames continued, leaning his cheek onto his fist as he scooped a spoonful of pudding out of the cup sitting before him. "Why should I, right? I'm tired of those selfish little bastards assuming they can have the easy life just because they have money. It's an outrage, really. We spent a long time and a lot of effort just so that we could supply them with this knowledge, and they don't even care. It's not fair to us, and it's not fair to our future. I don't have to stand for that. I'm an adult. I can do as I please."

"So, you're rebelling, eh? That was perfectly fine and good when we were sprogs with nothing to lose, but do you think it completely wise to be shaking things up now? You could be risking your job here."

"I don't give a fuck about my job anymore," Eames sighed, and it was only after he'd said it that he realized just what it was he had said.

"Are you serious?" Yusuf asked, raising his eyebrows, clearly stunned.

"I… no, _no_ , I didn't mean that," Eames said, shaking his head. "That's just my frustration talking. I didn't mean it."

"You had me worried there for a minute, Eames," Yusuf said with a sigh of relief. "After all, you're not exactly a spring chicken. It's not a very good idea to just abandon something and start over from scratch now."

"You make me sound so bloody old, Yusuf," Eames said with disdain. "I'm only thirty-two. You're acting like I'm sixty-four."

"Eames, by now most people have found their career. I'm just saying that it's difficult to start over at our ages, and there's really no point in getting offended, considering you never intended to quit in the first place. That is, unless you _were_."

Eames exhaled. "Yusuf," he said flatly, "I wasn't being serious. It doesn't mean I don't _think_ about what could have been. You know I wanted to be an actor. That was my first love, and of course I'm going to imagine the what ifs. It doesn't mean anything, all right?"

"What's gotten into you, Eames? You're acting loony," Yusuf said unsurely. "All this obsession with your age and what could have been…"

"Oh, come on, Yusuf!" Eames complained. "I can't please you, can I? One day you're worried about me because I'm miserable, and the next day you're worried because I'm happy."

"I'm not worried because you're happy. I'm worried because you might be borderline delusional if you think you could still have an acting career waiting for you."

"You never know," Eames mumbled stubbornly.

"Don't pout, Eames. You're too old to pout. Pouting is for sprogs."

"I'm not _pouting_. You're being an arsehole."

"You're acting like a teenager."

Eames grumbled but didn't respond to that. Yusuf was sort of right, he supposed. Maybe he'd been spending too much time with Arthur.

Maybe Arthur was having too much of an effect on him.

_"Use me, motherfucker."_

Arthur had issues. Eames shouldn't have been letting Arthur influence him at all. What the fuck was he thinking?

* * *

Arthur wasn't in the apartment when Eames got home from play rehearsals, and momentarily he was both panicked and relieved, and he wasn't entirely sure why.

He'd just settled down to a dinner of Chinese takeout when the door slammed shut and in sauntered Arthur in a pair of the clothes Eames had bought him that fit him entirely too well. He was thumbing through a wad of bills when he saw Eames, gasped and casually stashed the money in his back pocket. "Oh, hey," he said. "I didn't expect you to be here. I thought you had the um—the play thing."

"I let rehearsal out early since it was just a read through," Eames replied suspiciously, "where did you get that money?"

"Oh, you know… I uh… I panhandle. I sell stuff to my buddies down at the tent city sometimes too—not any of your stuff though, I swear. You can check. I promise nothing's missing."

Eames made a mental note to actually check everything to make sure Arthur wasn't a grubby little thief. It wouldn't be all that surprising considering the boy's lack of a moral compass. Still, he wasn't going to pretend he didn't know where that money had come from. He wasn't as dumb as Arthur apparently thought he was.

"I told you that I didn't want you going out and doing that with other men," Eames said quietly, kicking out a chair for Arthur to sit in. He would complain about it, but he wasn't going to act like it devastated him. He did care about Arthur, but he didn't care about him that much.

"Oh, relax," Arthur said, pulling the wad out and slamming it on the table. "I just sold two of those outfits you bought for me, not that I'm not grateful for them. I just didn't need more than a couple is all. Plus, you'd be surprised how much someone will fork over for a cigarette. I can buy a whole pack from the money I make off of a few."

"Bollocks," Eames said with a smirk that absolutely wasn't faked.

Arthur rolled his eyes, counting off some of the money to hand over to Eames. "Here, for the clothes I sold… and all right, I gave like… two hand jobs, but I already had them scheduled in my appointments. I'll stop from here on out, since you're the king of the castle and all."

"I don't want your money," Eames said, shoving it back to towards him. "Just eat, all right? Put some meat on your bones. That's what my mum used to tell me when I was a scrawny thing like you."

"My mom never gave me any sort of advice," Arthur snorted, twirling a fork in the noodles because he apparently wasn't going to attempt to use chopsticks. "The best advice she ever gave me was to turn a trick before they can turn a trick on you. Don't trust anyone, she said."

"You've certainly put a lot of faith in me," Eames mentioned idly.

Arthur looked up at him for a moment, his eyebrows wrinkling his forehead, but then he looked back to his meal and resumed chewing, mumbling, "Yeah well… I don't take much of what she said to heart."

"Well, I'd say a better piece of advice is to not trust _everyone_. There are some people you can trust," Eames said, "but if you blindly trust anybody who comes your way, you'll end up fucked over."

"So, why trust me?" Arthur asked, lifting his eyes to look at him again.

Arthur seriously must have read a book or something that taught him how to control people with his eyes because it seemed that every time Eames looked into them he was never the first one able to break contact.

"Whoever said that I trusted you?" Eames asked, grinning.

Arthur grinned right back. "Touché, Mr. Eames."

They finished their meal and Eames cleaned it up. It was as he was putting the dishes away that he noticed his answering machine was blinking with a new message. He hit the button and returned to his cleaning until a familiar voice spoke up.

"Eames, this is Cobb. I need to see you in my office on Monday morning. It's important."

That was the whole message, and Eames could guess what the inevitable meeting was about. Dominic Cobb, after all, was the head of his department. He'd only taken up the position a couple of years ago when his father-in-law retired, but he was very serious about his work. Eames had always been a bit fond of Cobb and his wife since both of them were friendly and clever, but he feared come Monday morning, he and Cobb wouldn't be getting along as swimmingly as they had in the past.

"Who's Cobb?" Arthur asked, clearly amused from where he was leaning in the doorway. "Why is he so pissed off at you?"

"He's a kind of supervisor for me," Eames replied, running a hand over his hair. "He's probably upset because I sort of threatened my students with failure if they didn't straighten up their act."

"Ooh, such a rebel," Arthur said teasingly, "Sexy."

"I wasn't doing it to be sexy," Eames said, tousling Arthur's hair as he passed him. "I'll just explain myself and hope I still have a job."

"They're not going to fire you for making your students pay attention," Arthur scoffed, following Eames into the lounge, hopping up onto the coffee table and wandering across it, "and if they do then you shouldn't be working for someone so pathetic anyway. Why don't you just go back to the acting thing? That seems like a way cooler job to do."

"It's not that simple," Eames said, digging out some of his students' work to look over and grade. "I didn't make it as an actor, and I'm too old to go out and give it another go. I can't just do _whatever_ I want."

"Sure you can," Arthur said, hopping off of the table to crawl up onto Eames's thigh. "You're an adult. You live in America. You can do all kinds of shit."

"There are still consequences," Eames said, pretending his mouth didn't go dry. "There are always consequences when we do risky things. I am a gambling man of sorts, but some stakes are ridiculously high, not worth the bet."

"Yeah, but what if it is worth the effort?" Arthur asked.

"What are you really trying to ask me, darling?"

Arthur leaned in and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

"I have to grade these papers," Eames murmured, eyelids dipping as he attempted not to lean into the kiss.

"Uh-huh," Arthur said, not listening as he kissed along his jaw.

"You're avoiding my question," Eames mentioned, though he did tilt his head back to let Arthur mouth down his neck.

Arthur dragged his teeth along Eames's collarbone, pushing open the lapels of his shirt.

It took all of Eames's wherewithal not to give into him right then and there. " _Arthur_ ," he said again, tugging at the back of his shirt to get him to stop and look at him. "Arthur."

"What?" Arthur asked in agitation.

"What were you really trying to ask me?" Eames asked again, ghosting his thumb across his cheekbone.

Arthur looked away, wetting his lips. "I… well…" he turned those black eyes back to Eames, and his lips parted absolutely gorgeously, and he said, "am _I_ worth the effort?"

He looked so frightened, so vulnerable, so _young_ and _lost_ …

All Eames _could_ say was, "Of course, love," and kiss him again.

He pretended not to notice that Arthur kissed him with his eyes open or that his hand immediately went to Eames's trousers, rubbing his cock through the fabric in the attempt to get it to stand at attention.

He also pretended not to notice that, for all the adultness and freedom he had in his own flat and in his own life, he was completely and utterly consumed by all things _Arthur_. He wasn't as strong as he liked to think he was, and his loneliness had been crushing down on him for such a long time…

He just needed _someone_ , _anyone_ to help rid him of the pain of his existence, to make him feel relevant and important for one damned second.

…and Arthur…

_"Use me, motherfucker."_

Well… Arthur wanted to be used.

At least… that was what he said.

"You like that?" Arthur asked, nibbling at his neck.

"I really do need to—" Eames tried to say but was cut off with a moan from his own mouth. Arthur was so fucking good with his fingers.

"You've got all weekend for those papers," Arthur whispered against his ear. "All work and no play makes Eames a dull boy, so let's _play_."

"Fuck," Eames hissed and shoved Arthur down onto the couch. "You are a bloody cocktease."

"A cocktease doesn't let you have it in the end," Arthur said, lifting his hips to press against Eames. "How do you want me?"

Eames dropped his head to Arthur's shoulder, panting against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. "I just… want you…"

Arthur momentarily stilled in Eames's arms then.

…but Eames pretended not to notice.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Eames is a burned out university professor who goes to the park for lunch to get away from the chaos of his life. There he meets 16-year-old Arthur and begins to befriend him for his ability to have an intelligent conversation with him. When he discovers the boy is homeless, he decides to take care of him, but things with Arthur get more complicated than he could ever expect.

Part Six

Arthur still kissed clumsily, Eames realized.

He realized it, surprisingly, even while he was in the middle of sliding his hands up under Arthur's shirt, hiking it up on his body as much as he possibly could without peeling it off. Even with heat crawling up his spine and trying to devour him, Eames still noticed the way he nipped at him unsurely and didn't seem to know what to do with his tongue. With all the finesse he used when sucking someone off, kissing was still something entirely new to him.

Eames broke off the kiss, panting into his mouth before sitting back to look down at Arthur splayed out along the cushions. "All right there, love?" Eames asked, and he wasn't smiling fondly at him, he _wasn't_.

Arthur blinked slowly as if coming out of a trance. "Yeah," he breathed. "I'm… I'm okay… Come on… Let's—let's get on with it."

Arthur lifted himself off of the cushions, lifting his arms to let Eames slip his shirt over his head for him, and then Eames leaned back in to kiss him languidly. Eames swore for a moment that Arthur's lip trembled between his. He broke the kiss and trailed up his jawline to his ear where he flicked his tongue along the shell, and Arthur just _whimpered_. "Please… _Please_ ," Arthur begged, and there was a part of Eames that wondered if he was really that antsy or if he was genuinely disturbed by the gentle way Eames handled him.

Eames really didn't have time to truly question it because Arthur was tugging at Eames's shirt, fiddling with the buttons until he got frustrated and snapped the fabric apart, sending buttons flying across the room.

"You're going to have to tell me the stories of these sometime," Arthur said, sliding his ice cold fingers down Eames's tattooed chest. "Man, how can any of your students not think you're cool?"

"I don't do this with any of my students," Eames said, watching through heavily lidded eyes while Arthur loosed his belt. "I never would."

"Why?" Arthur asked, dimpling his cheeks while still concentrating on the task of unbuttoning Eames's trousers. "Because they're young? Because office romances are a drag? Because they're idiots?"

"I guess it depends on the student, doesn't it—" Eames started to reply but was cut off by a moan when Arthur wrapped a hand around his freed cock. " _Oh_ , you like to get right to the point, don't you?"

"I've never been much for foreplay, no," Arthur replied, and his voice took on almost a bitter quality, a _nervous_ quality. Eames couldn't comment because Arthur swallowed him down to the hilt and all he could do was let his eyes roll back in his head and let his eyelashes flutter.

" _Christ_ , Arthur," Eames choked. Arthur shut him up by shoving his fingers into Eames's mouth to suck on.

Arthur only swallowed Eames down a few times before coming up for air, wiping excess drool off of his chin with his free hand. "Do you still not want to have sex with me?" Arthur asked, chest heaving beautifully.

"I still have some semblance of self-control," Eames grunted, and _that_ sounded like a lie if he'd ever heard one. Arthur was smirking at him as if he knew it too, so Eames tried again in order to save himself from… whatever he was saving himself from. "Besides," he said, "I thought you didn't do the 'penetration' thing."

Arthur suddenly backed away from him as if he'd been stung, stumbling on the heels of his feet and hands until he nearly fell off of the couch. He planted one foot on the ground to keep himself balanced, giving Eames a ridiculously appealing view of the noticeable bulge in his jeans. Still, Eames couldn't help but look at that horrified face on the boy.

"What?" Eames asked, confused.

"I never said that _you'd_ be fucking _me_ ," Arthur growled as if Eames had gone out of his way to personally offend him. "No one penetrates me. That's how I work."

"I never said that I was…" Eames started to say, but trailed off when the look of fear didn't diminish. "What did _you_ want to do, then?"

Arthur clambered unsteadily to his feet and looked down at Eames, and the fear was gone. In fact, any hint of real emotion seemed to vanish. "That's right," he said quietly, as if to himself. "We do things my way… I play the game, but no one goes against the rules. No one."

Eames wasn't sure if he wanted the boy anymore with him talking like that. In fact, he'd forgotten about it momentarily, standing and planting his hands lightly on his shoulders. "Arthur," he said softly but firmly. "Arthur, are you still in there?"

Arthur's wild black eyes blinked, and recognition seemed to return to them then. He looked up to Eames as if seeing him for the first time. "I'm here," he said, voice cracking. He swallowed and said again, more steadily, "I'm here."

Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames's waist, pressing himself against him in a rather crushing embrace, as if he was clinging onto Eames for dear life.

"That's enough nonsense for the night," Eames whispered to him, combing Arthur's hair with his fingers, trying to calm the boy's nerves. "Let's just get ourselves into the bath and to bed, all right?"

Arthur wouldn't budge when Eames tried to pull him off of him, so Eames resorted to stroking his head and back again for a few minutes until Arthur's tense muscles relaxed a little.

"Come now, Arthur, let's get you to the bath," Eames offered again.

"Don't make me go there by myself," Arthur said timidly.

Eames sighed. "I won't. Come on, we'll go there together then, all right?"

Arthur held his hand on the way to the bathroom and didn't seem to get back to his senses until he was sinking into the hot water of the tub.

"Arthur," Eames said, leaning against the side of the tub, "did something happen to you?"

"No," Arthur replied immediately and tugged on Eames's wrist. "Get in."

Eames hesitantly did as told, figuring he might as well. "Well, at least you're starting to sound like yourself again," he said.

"Just taking care of business," Arthur replied, wrapping his hand around Eames again and stroking him until he became fully hard again. He did this with a laser focus that was anything but enchanting, but Eames's body couldn't help but react to the touch. He just tried not to look too much at the boy at that moment, eyes squeezing shut.

"You don't have to do this," Eames choked.

Arthur's mouth curved into a hard frown, but he didn't slow down, didn't look up at Eames. "Yes," he said roughly, "I do."

The nerves coiling up Eames's spine made him climax undeniably quickly. It wasn't nearly as maddening and powerful as the one from the night before, but it was still better than any he'd ever experienced with any woman he'd slept with in the past. He was pretty sure he was a homosexual by this point.

He slumped in the tub and found Arthur had laid his head on his chest. The boy was breathing harder than Eames was, and all Eames could do was put an arm around him and stare up at the ceiling as the steam around them fluttered upwards in ribbons and vanished.

"One of these days, you're actually going to talk to me," Eames said to him and pressed a small kiss to the top of his head.

Arthur didn't say anything.

* * *

The next morning, Eames found himself entangled in his bed sheets and Arthur's limbs.

He blinked a few times, yawning and considered going back to sleep until Arthur lifted his head from Eames's chest and drowsily smiled.

"Breakfast?" Eames asked.

"In a bit," Arthur mumbled, lying back down. "Sorry about last night. I was a little weird yesterday."

Eames was tempted to shrug it off and allow himself to not worry about it, but he couldn't help but ask, "What was that all about anyway?"

"I just get like that sometimes…" Arthur replied vaguely. "I probably just have some mental problems or something."

"It seems to me like you've been experiencing some coping mechanisms," Eames offered, his hand finding his way into Arthur's hair once again. "That's just a theory of course. I have a degree in psychology, but that doesn't mean I'm a therapist."

"Coping mechanisms?" Arthur scoffed. "For what?"

"I don't know," Eames shrugged. "Your mother, being homeless… you tell me, Arthur."

"I don't have to tell you anything," Arthur mumbled. "Besides, there's nothing to tell."

Eames was pretty sure trying to force an answer out of him was a bad idea, so he decided to let it go… for the moment anyway…

…but after his bizarre shift in attitude, Eames most definitely intended to find out just what was going on underneath his surface.

He had to know.

…not because he really desperately _cared_ or any kind of nonsense like that, but because he'd always been dangerously curious. He had always gone to great lengths in the pursuit of knowledge, whether it had been climbing to the highest tree in his childhood neighborhood to see what it looked like from above or whether it had been pulling the fire alarm at school when no one was looking just to see if anyone could find out if he'd done it or not. He'd pierced his ear when he was fifteen to see how long he could hide it from his mother, run away when he was four to see how long it would take for someone to realize he was gone…

It really had nothing to do with any worry or fear he had about Arthur. Sure, he cared about him, but he didn't care about him _that_ much. Caring about someone _that_ much was borderline love.

"Come on," Arthur said, crawling off of him. "Let's go out to breakfast. We can get some Mickey D's or something. I already ate all the cereal."

Eames watched as the boy crossed the room, completely nude, unable to help but admire the perfect lines of his back and the freckles on his shoulder blades, the mole on his ass… and then he watched as he crouched before Eames's dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer.

In the bottom drawer were the clothes Eames had bought for him. Not only had he not sold a single article of them, he'd stashed them in the room like he already belonged there. Eames's emotions swam unsurely around inside his chest. He couldn't pinpoint quite how he felt about the fact that Arthur had moved into his room (it was only at that moment that he realized they'd started sharing the same bed without any preempting). He didn't even care that Arthur had lied about selling the clothes. The fact that he'd kept them meant that they were important to him, and that was at least proof that he gave a damn about something… but he didn't keep the clothes in his bag, and he came back at the end of the day, and… well, sure, there was the clear fact that living in Eames's place was a definite improvement from hunkering down in an alleyway but…

…but maybe, just maybe, Eames meant something to Arthur too.

_"I sort of… hoped you'd be here. It's nice to have someone who doesn't just pass me off as completely invisible."_

"Eames."

Eames snapped out of his daze to find that Arthur had dressed and crawled back onto the bed to snap his fingers in front of his face. "Come on. Breakfast. They stop serving at 10:30."

"Right," Eames said, throwing off the sheets. "I'll be out in a moment. Just let me get dressed."

Arthur wandered out, mumbling to himself about what he would get, and Eames wished he could get as excited about McDonald's as Arthur could, but then again, he was glad that he didn't.

He smiled a little to himself, tugging on a long-sleeved shirt, a cardigan, and some jeans and boots. It was actually a little bizarre to even be getting dressed on the weekend, considering he usually spent his time cooped up in his room or office, grading papers in his pajamas and drinking tea until his bladder nearly exploded and then going back to do it all over again. Still, it wasn't like a little change of pace was a bad thing; he'd been in a hell of a rut, after all. He wondered if the fact that _Arthur_ had brought about this change of pace was leading to disaster, however, but he didn't let it bother him too badly for the moment.

For the moment, he just reveled in the look of surprise that Arthur gave him when he came walking into the living room. "What?" Eames asked.

"I've never seen you in civvies before," Arthur said, gesturing to Eames's clothes. "Usually you're in those ugly shirts and dress pants since you work all the time, but… I _like_ you like this." Arthur's smile was devious, and Eames couldn't help but preen a little under his gaze.

They tugged on their coats and were out the door into the chilled morning. Eames thought it was damned cold for late October, but he didn't mind it with Arthur close to his side. He was just happy that Arthur was back in better spirits, not acting in the bizarre, insane way he had the night before…

…Still, he wondered about that. What had brought that about? It was incredibly unsettling, even just thinking about the look on his face, the way his voice had taken on that hint of madness. Arthur had been afraid, no— _terrified_ of some unseen force that may or may not have been real, and Eames for one was beginning to wonder just what had happened to Arthur to cause that to happen… had something even really happened? What if Arthur suffered from some sort of mental disease? Quite a few people that lived on the streets did, and it wasn't like Arthur's perspective on life wasn't inhumanly warped.

…but really, Eames was just as warped, since he'd given in to his temptation and let the attraction he had to the boy fuel him into doing some probably regrettable things. If Arthur was mentally unstable, then Eames doubtlessly had just as much reason to be in an institution. He didn't think either of them needed a straitjacket for any other reason than keeping their hands off of each other.

Okay, maybe that was a bit of a real problem, but it wasn't the kind of problem that required intense therapy and medication at least.

Arthur fished a cigarette out of his coat pocket, lit it. Eames watched the way his lips curled around it, how the smoke puffed out of his nose.

"Do you trust me, Arthur?" Eames found himself asking, purely out of curiosity.

Arthur looked up at him. "Not necessarily," he said without hesitation. "Did you expect a different answer?"

"No, actually, I didn't," Eames said lightly. "After all, you certainly don't tell me a lot of things. I haven't given you any reason to trust me with your secrets. Of course, even if you don't believe me, you _can_ trust me."

Arthur's vision darted out to the street, staring blankly at the cars moving by. "You'll have to prove it to me, if you want my trust so badly."

Eames hadn't said that he wanted Arthur's trust, but… well… maybe he had been indirectly asking for it by asking him if he trusted him in the first place. Really, Eames thought, that wasn't fair because he didn't exactly trust Arthur either.

…but he wanted to.

He wanted to trust him because if he could trust him, that meant he wasn't out of his fucking mind for taking that dangerous step forward in the chaos that was their relationship. He couldn't help Arthur or himself until trust was there.

So, he would find a way to trust Arthur and for Arthur to trust him.

* * *

It was quite possible that Arthur ordered everything off of the McDonald's breakfast menu.

Eames had seen the boy devour food unabashedly, but really, he had just an inhuman love of McDonald's. He couldn't help but find it cute and endearing, watching the boy excitedly smile and gratefully accept the large cup of cola when the woman behind the counter handed it to him.

Arthur carried his tray piled high with food to a table and Eames joined him with his much smaller breakfast. "That's a good boy," Eames told him. "You definitely need to fatten yourself up a little bit. You're just skin and bones."

"I would be anyway," Arthur said around a mouthful of food. "I've always been kind of on the scrawny side. Even when I did get regular meals, I still never seemed to gain any weight."

Eames doubted Arthur had ever really gotten regular meals, but he couldn't be sure. "Whatever. Eating is good for you."

"I am a growing boy," Arthur agreed cheekily. Eames would have smacked that shit-eating grin off of his face had he not been quite so precious.

They ate, speaking companionably about nothing. Arthur would point out people in the restaurant and in a hushed voice make a clever insult. Eames wasn't ashamed to admit that he laughed loud and uproariously as Arthur continued making ridiculous comments about this person or that person. They got a couple of glares, but Eames didn't care. Arthur was funny so they could go fuck themselves.

Everything was so funny right up until someone said, "Eames?"

Both he and Arthur's laughter trailed off, and they both looked up to see Yusuf standing there looking terribly, terribly confused.

"Yusuf," Eames said, smiling through his absolute _horror_. "Fancy that. Wh—what, what are you doing here?"

"Coffee," Yusuf said slowly, and he wasn't looking at Eames at all. His eyes trailed over Arthur curiously, hesitant and suspicious. "Who is… ah… who is this?"

"Ah—" Eames started to say.

"I'm his friend," Arthur said innocently. "I'm Arthur."

"I… see…" Yusuf said slowly, brows furrowed. "How did the two of you come to be _friends_ exactly?"

"We're fucking," Arthur said, completely straight-faced.

Eames's mouth fell open, and for a moment it felt like all the air in the place had disappeared. The seconds ticked by unbearably slowly, and then…

Arthur howled with laughter, pointing at Yusuf. "Your _face_! The look on your _face_! Did you really think I was serious?"

Eames's sigh of relief was simultaneous with Yusuf's, and thankfully Yusuf didn't notice it.

"Eames and I met at the park," Arthur said. "He lost a bet, so now he has to buy me breakfast."

"What bet exactly?" Yusuf asked, looking from one to the other.

"We cannot discuss the bet. Those were the rules," Arthur said, and Eames couldn't help but marvel at Arthur's ability to bluff under pressure. He thought it might do to take him to a poker game sometime.

"Oh, is that so?" Yusuf said, and if anything, he was a little bit skeptical, despite how cool-headed Arthur was.

"Ah… excuse me a moment," Eames said to Arthur and led Yusuf outside with a palm on his shoulder.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Yusuf whirled on him. "Why are you having breakfast with a teenager, Eames? What's going on here? Do you even know what you look like?"

"Yusuf, it's just _breakfast_ ," Eames complained, and really, it wasn't like Yusuf didn't have a right to be suspicious… but if there was one thing Yusuf wouldn't understand, it would be his and Arthur tumultuous fling. Hell, Eames didn't even completely understand it.

"Men don't just _have breakfast_ with boys unless they're related, Eames," Yusuf said. "Everyone in that restaurant probably thinks you're some kind of dirty pervert."

"Who cares what those people think? It's bloody McDonald's, Yusuf. I'm sure that ninety percent of the people in there have more disturbing hobbies than sharing a meal with a young man."

"Why _are_ you sharing a meal with him, Eames?"

"Well, he's my mate," Eames said simply.

"How can the two of you _possibly_ have _anything_ in common? A—and why haven't you told me about him before now if he's such a good 'mate' of yours?"

"Don't act jealous, Yusuf, it's unbecoming," Eames teased, but clearly Yusuf wasn't in a joking mood. Eames thought that Yusuf was most definitely overreacting to all of this, and it was so bizarre to witness since Yusuf never overreacted to anything. "He's just a nice kid, is all," Eames explained, holding his hands up in defense, "He's smart, and we just sort of got to know each other by chance. We're not ridiculously good mates or anything, so I didn't think it was worth mentioning."

"Eames…" Yusuf said, and he looked _anxious_. "I was watching the two of you interact. You two are terribly familiar, and I know that you're not generally the kind of person who acts familiar with people unless you're terribly close. What's the real story?"

Eames looked back inside at Arthur. Arthur was watching them over his food as if he was attempting to read their lips (and maybe he was).

"I just… I felt sorry for him, all right?" Eames said with a sigh. "He's all alone in the world, and I just wanted to help him a little."

Yusuf raised an eyebrow, so Eames clarified. "He's homeless, Yusuf. He's been living on the streets since he was _twelve_. I'm just buying him a hot meal or two, giving him someone to talk to and confide in. Is that so bad?"

"Shouldn't you have just taken him to the police, or to a shelter?" Yusuf asked.

"I can't do that, Yusuf. He's just a kid I met, all right? I can't _make_ him do anything anymore than he can make me do anything."

Actually, if Yusuf had known what was going on, he would have been aware of just how poor a choice of words that was.

Still, it seemed to be enough to somewhat satisfy Yusuf because he huffed and broke eye contact for a moment or two, signaling defeat. "All right… _fine_ … He's just a poor little homeless boy. At least, that's what he's told you… but Eames, there's something about him that is _off_. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it. I noticed it _immediately_ , and you've always been more astute than I have been when it comes to people."

"I've noticed it," Eames said, and of course he'd noticed it. He was still reeling from the night before. "That's no reason to treat him like a bloody leper. He's had a hard life. I'm sure he's had his fair share of unsettling experiences. He's perfectly fine company though. It's just _breakfast_ , may I remind you again? That's all."

Eames was really too good at lying… but hey, that's what acting was. Professional lying.

"I don't have any say in who your friends are, Eames," Yusuf said, lifting his arms and dropping them at his sides, "but all I'm going to say is you might want to back off with the doe eyes you keep giving him or people are going to start to think there's something going on between you two."

"Doe eyes? I was not giving him doe eyes."

"You were, Eames. You were, I saw you."

Eames scoffed and didn't let the panic show on his face over the idea that he really might have been. Was he really? He'd never been the type to stare at anyone like that, and most certainly not at other _men_. Sure, Arthur was a lovely creature (if not vindictive at moments and teetering on the edge of psychotic), and he cared about him, but he didn't care about him enough to be giving him starry-eyed looks.

…but he had been. Yusuf had confirmed it.

That was a dangerous symptom proving that the disease that was Arthur in Eames's brain and bloodstream was quite possibly progressing into something much worse than he'd ever expected.

Oh, this was bad.

This was very, very bad.

It was a damned good thing that Eames was such an actor, or Yusuf would have noticed the mental breakdown fighting to take place behind Eames's cleverly constructed façade.

"You're barmy," Eames told him and went inside, signaling the end of the conversation.

 _Fuck_ , Eames thought.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Eames is a burned out university professor who goes to the park for lunch to get away from the chaos of his life. There he meets 16-year-old Arthur and begins to befriend him for his ability to have an intelligent conversation with him. When he discovers the boy is homeless, he decides to take care of him, but things with Arthur get more complicated than he could ever expect.

Part Seven

"Your friend seems nice," Arthur said as Eames unlocked the door to his home.

"He is nice… most of the time," Eames shrugged, shutting and locking the door. He turned to find Arthur shrugging out of his coat, leering at him as he did the same. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Arthur replied, hanging up his coat next to Eames's. "I just like the way that shirt fits you." He popped up on his tip-toes and pecked Eames on the lips and then sauntered to the settee and threw himself down on it, snagging up the book he'd left on the coffee table.

Eames stood there for a long moment, taking in what had just happened. Normally, he wouldn't have thought anything of it, not really, but Yusuf had mentioned his doe eyes. Yusuf had mentioned his doe eyes and Arthur had gone and done something oddly relationship-y. Eames really wasn't sure what to do with the information, so he tucked it away and joined Arthur on the couch.

"You enjoyed your breakfast then?" Eames asked.

"It was awesome," Arthur said contentedly, "but you haven't told me what got your friend Yusuf's panties in a wad."

"There's a lot of things you haven't told me either, if I may remind you," Eames replied. He couldn't just tell him that Yusuf had accused him of making doe eyes. Arthur would either laugh at him, or worse—confirm it. He didn't like being laughed at, but he most definitely didn't like the accusation that he had any feeling other than friendliness towards Arthur…

…even if it was completely obvious that _friendliness_ was far from an accurate description of whatever it was they were doing. Eames had never really had many friends that were half his age, and he didn't generally tend to be very sensual with the friends he did have (the women he'd slept with in the past weren't people he was particularly close to, thinking back on it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd talked to one of them at length).

So… what exactly _were_ they?

Eames was concerned not only that Yusuf had questioned that, but he was definitely questioning it too. Despite the fact that he knew he absolutely _couldn't_ (or at least _shouldn't_ ) have any other feelings for Arthur, there was definitely something going on beneath Eames's surface, something sparking between the spaces between the two of them.

He had a feeling that Arthur knew it too.

"What's with your face?"

"What?" Eames asked, coming out of his thoughts to lift an eyebrow at Arthur.

"Your face," Arthur said again. "It was like this." He proceeded to furrow his brows and frown deeply, and Eames couldn't help but snort and snigger at that.

"I certainly hope I wasn't looking so daft," Eames grinned.

"You were," Arthur replied, flipping a page in the book. "What's on your mind?"

"Oh… nothing," Eames said, shrugging, "just the students."

Arthur huffed, clapping his book shut. "You need to stop caring so much about them and start caring about yourself. Who cares if they fail? What's important is that you do your job and you do it to the best of your ability. If they refuse to do their jobs to the best of theirs, then it's their own fucking fault."

"My students are the proof of my abilities—"

"No. They're not. They're _not_." Arthur moved closer to Eames so he could look right into his eyes, and Eames couldn't understand why Arthur was taking this so serious. "The only thing that is proof of your ability is your own satisfaction at your work. You can half-ass a job and pretend you did it well, but in your gut you'll always know the truth. It's only when you know that you've done the absolute best that you can that you know you've succeeded."

"Well, what if I have been doing my best but I'm still not satisfied?" Eames countered.

Arthur sat back, digging out a cigarette. "Well, first, you've got to be honest with yourself and know for sure if you really have been doing your best. I can just about _guarantee_ that you haven't been because you're so caught up in the fact that your students are failing that you've gone and failed yourself by caring too much about what they aren't doing."

He paused to light his cigarette and take his first puff. "Second," he continued, "if you do end up at the conclusion where you've done your best and you're still not happy, then you're in the wrong profession. You've got to do what makes you happy, right? That's what America's all about, right? The pursuit of happiness."

"You're barmy," Eames said.

"That's what you told Yusuf when he talked about me," Arthur said with a smirk, and Eames immediately wondered how much Arthur actually had read from their conversation. "Do you only hang out with lunatics, Mr. Eames?"

"Crazies tend to associate with other crazies I suppose," Eames sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I don't hear you denying your own insanity either, might I say."

"Oh, well, why should I?" Arthur asked, tilting his head back onto the back of the couch and blowing smoke into the air. "Who's to say I'm _not_ crazy?"

"I would think you'd have an opinion on the matter, and probably a therapist as well."

Arthur's hand with the cigarette dropped to his lap, but he kept staring at the ceiling. "Do you think that I'm crazy?"

"Why would it matter if I did or not? Aren't I crazy too?"

"It matters to me."

"Well…" Eames snagged the cigarette from Arthur before it burned down to his fingers, taking a drag off of it before putting it out in the cup Eames had set out for him a few days ago. "I'd have to know you a bit better before I could accurately make that assumption."

Arthur leaned his head so that he could look at Eames. "You know me well enough to touch your dick, but you don't know me enough to tell me if I'm insane? You really are insane."

"You're sixteen, I'm thirty-two, and you're just now realizing this?"

Arthur lunged at him, and when their mouths connected Eames momentarily wondered why feeling this good was _insane_.

* * *

When Eames woke up, he was sprawled out on the couch with his shirt hiked up to his chest and his trousers and underpants pulled to his ankles. Arthur was gone.

He righted his clothing and got to his feet, hunting the place for the boy, but he was nowhere to be found. He had left the premises.

Without anything else to do, Eames locked himself in his office and started grading classwork. As he read over the students' work, he couldn't help but think about what Arthur had said about satisfaction on the job.

Yeah, it was bollocks; Arthur had the tendency to spout bollocks in order to get Eames over to his side… but he'd had a point. Eames really _did_ spend all of his focus on his students. He half-assed his lesson plans and assignments, graded them haphazardly, gave up on them as soon as they made one mistake because he'd gotten so used to it. He really hadn't been bothering with his job because he just didn't care anymore…

No wonder his students hated him. They never had a chance.

If Eames wanted them to do better, he was going to have to show himself a little more respect and give a shit about what it was he was teaching. He'd been so upset at them for not caring about the pursuit of knowledge when he'd been breezing by just like the rest of them.

Well, fuck.

After Eames finished with the papers, he pulled out a moleskine and started writing down a new lesson plan. He wasn't sure why he hadn't bothered to try changing things up considering that used to be his methods for just about anything that wasn't working. Trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results was insanity.

Well, at least that solved the dilemma of whether he was crazy or not.

He was just leaving his office when he heard the front door slam shut.

"Arthur?" Eames called out, but just as he rounded the corner, Arthur shoved passed him and locked himself into the bathroom.

Eames knocked, but Arthur didn't answer, didn't open the door.

He stayed in there for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

By suppertime, Arthur still hadn't come out of the bath, so Eames tried knocking again with the same result.

"Arthur," he said into the door. "You've got to come out of there sometime. What's wrong, darling?"

There was no response.

"All right, fine then, but I'm going to cook supper now. You can come out if you're hungry."

Eames made Mexican rice and chicken in the hopes that the strong scent of the spices would carry under the door to Arthur's nose and bring him out, though he _had_ eaten a lot of breakfast and could probably hold out. He figured it was at least worth the effort.

He was halfway through his meal when Arthur emerged, looking as though he'd scrubbed his skin raw with soap, eyes dazed. Eames raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for an explanation, and surprisingly, Arthur gave one without even speaking.

When Arthur entered the kitchen and entered the light, Eames's eye was immediately drawn the dark bruising around Arthur's right eye, the purplish spot on the right side of his jaw, the dried blood crusted in his nose… "What happened to you?" Eames asked, instantly getting to his feet.

Arthur sniffed, averting his eyes. "Nothing… just a scuffle... Don't worry about it."

Eames crossed the kitchen in two strides, cupping Arthur's face gently with both hands. "It's not 'nothing'. Who the fuck did this to you?"

Arthur tried to turn his face away from Eames's hands, but eventually gave up when he realized Eames wasn't going to let him. "It was just… It was just this guy, all right? One of my 'customers' or whatever… He um… he wanted me to… to um… but he didn't have the cash, so I told him no, and he beat me up."

Eames sighed, moving one of his hands to run it through Arthur's hair a couple of times. "That's all he did?" Eames asked, concern lacing his voice.

Arthur swallowed thickly and nodded jerkily. "Don't be stupid," he mumbled.

Eames moved to the refrigerator and dug out a bag of frozen peas. "Here," he said, handing it to Arthur. "Hold that over your eye. It will help the swelling go down. Why didn't you just come to me? Why'd you go and lock yourself in the bath?"

Arthur pressed the bag of peas to his eye, wincing slightly. "I… was mad…" Arthur murmured, still not looking directly at Eames. "I didn't want to take it out on you because I thought that…"

"You thought I'd make you leave?"

Arthur hesitated just long enough before saying, "Yeah…" that Eames was convinced Arthur had something else in mind, but Eames wasn't going to press the matter for the moment.

"Go sit down," Eames said. "I'll fix you a plate, all right?"

Arthur hunched in his chair, still holding the bag over his eye, silent until Eames set the plate down. Arthur's hand leaped out and grabbed hold of Eames's fingers before he could move away, and he looked up at him with his good eye and said, "Eames… I… thanks for… just…

"Thanks."

Eames adjusted his hand so that he was holding Arthur's, rubbed his thumb over the knuckle that was slightly bruised (he must have retaliated) and said, "It was my pleasure, Arthur. I hate to see you in pain."

…and in that moment Eames almost thought Arthur would cry, but instead he just gave him a watery smile, moved his hand away, and started to eat. "This is really good," Arthur said, letting Eames card a hand through his hair as he went to take his seat again.

"There's plenty of it, so help yourself," Eames replied, digging his fork back into his own meal.

They sat there quietly for a few minutes, listening to the clinks of their dishes and silverware, to the sounds of each other's chewing. Eames couldn't stop looking at the dark bruise around Arthur's eye and the way his eyes were solemnly downcast at his plate as if he would burst into tears at any second. He wanted to say something to him, but he was afraid of the breakdown, afraid he'd be completely at a loss over what to do. He never did handle situations like that well.

…because, the thing was, Eames was very good at faking emotions, but he tended to avoid using the real ones very often. Emotions often led to baggage and baggage often led to trouble. Eames didn't want to get too close to someone because most of his relationships in life had gone down the path of utter destruction. His father had been married to his work and eventually stopped coming home at all and his mother had been an alcoholic. Eames wasn't even sure if he was his father's son since his mother had quite a few 'admirers' in the day. He couldn't trust them with his secrets and fears because they couldn't even trust themselves with their own well-being.

Friends in school had come and gone, but the only one he'd ever really gotten close to was Jules, and then Jules had up and left, barely remembering a 'take care' to Eames and the rest of his friends… like Eames was just like them. While Jules had been incredibly special to Eames, he had meant nearly nothing to Jules, merely another face to blend in with the sea of faces that were his mates. When Eames had realized it, it had been a devastating blow. To love someone who barely recognized his existence and to still feel his heart get stomped on when he left… it was too much to bear. He was an awkward, confused teenager who had just wanted some sort of affection, just one person, _one person_ to _understand_ what he was going through.

…but there wasn't anyone…

He shut down after that, only pulling at real emotions as inspirations for the acted out ones. He was still charming and charismatic, which led to him meeting Yusuf in the university and also led him into the exciting world of being an adult. He'd drank and experimented with a couple of drugs (nothing with too terrible a reputation of course), had sex with dozens of women whose faces he could no longer recall through the haze… and he'd thought then that the slightly lessened emptiness in his chest was the happiness he was looking for, but when he would crawl into bed in his dormitory alone, the sinking feeling was still there, growing deeper and deeper every time. Like a drug, he craved more of it and yet got less satisfaction. In the end, he decided it wasn't worth the effort.

When he started teaching, the black pit in his heart slackened quite substantially. He found himself excited to be alive again, enthused by the incentive of his students' thirst for knowledge. He may not have felt _happy_ , but he felt _appreciated_ and that was the closest to true happiness he had ever come. When the enthusiasm gradually faded, so did that feeling of appreciation, of pride, of accomplishment…

…and there was the hole again, deeper and hollowed out than ever.

…and then Arthur…

_"I sort of… hoped you'd be here. It's nice to have someone who doesn't just pass me off as completely invisible."_

_"Man, how can any of your students not think you're cool?"_

_"Am I worth the effort?"_

_"Don't you ever get lonely?"_

_"You don't have anyone in the whole world and neither do I. I don't believe in 'destiny' or any kind of shit like that, but maybe you and I found each other because we need each other. So what if I'm a teenager? So what if people can't know? What's so wrong with having someone to go to at the end of the day? To like… I don't know, let out your frustrations on so you can fucking sleep at night?"_

_"If you need somebody in your life, I can be that person."_

_"It's really all I've got to offer."_

_**"Sometimes I feel like I've been lonely my whole life."** _

Arthur understood him…

…and Arthur filled in that chasm inside him… almost like he fit perfect and snug right there… It wasn't the sex or the blow jobs or the dirty words or the way Arthur told him to use him. It was the crinkle in his eyes and the dimples on his cheeks when he smiled, the way he was happy to see him when he returned from work, the way his laugh was charming even when he was being a brat, the way he was smart and clever and silly…

…the way that… even when the entire world seemed to be trying to tear him to shreds, to shit on his dignity and piss all over his hopes… Arthur still had a _reason_ to smile…

…and had given _Eames_ a reason to.

Thinking about it, Eames was no longer surprised by the idea that he'd been giving the boy doe-eyed looks.

Arthur stood, taking Eames's empty plate with his to the sink and setting them down with a quiet clunk. "I'm sorry that I… locked myself in the bathroom. You might have needed to use it," he said quietly.

"Let's just not let it happen again," Eames assured, him, snaking an arm around his neck and leading him back to the bedroom. "If you're upset, you don't have to be afraid to come to me, all right? I'll take care of you. Get into bed, all right? Tomorrow we'll go see a film or something to get your mind off of that wanker who hit you."

"Aren't we going to—" Arthur started, but Eames interrupted.

"No, no, of course not," Eames said, tossing him one of Eames's own shirts to sleep in. "I've already told you that you don't have to. I've _been_ telling you so since the beginning."

Arthur nodded slowly and tugged his shirt over his head. He had purple and green and yellow bruises and awful scrapes across his chest too, as though he'd been shoved into a wall or something. "I wouldn't mind…" Arthur said so softly that Eames almost didn't hear it, "I wouldn't mind if it was you."

"…what?" Eames asked because he certainly must have misheard him.

"You know how some people are all about being tied up and gagged and talked to like a bitch?" Arthur asked, gingerly sitting on the bed to remove his shoes.

"Um… yes," Eames said, snorting as he undressed as well. "Why?"

"You know… most people think it's all fucked up and crazy. People think there's something wrong with those people… but I was thinking about it today, and you know, I think it's actually kind of almost romantic, don't you think?"

"Not really sure why you would think that," Eames replied, flopping down onto his side of the bed. "Bondage doesn't really sound very romantic to me. It would feel like being held prisoner, I'd imagine."

"Well, yeah, if you just look at it at a strictly surface value, it totally looks like that, but… well… think about it…" Arthur said, dropping his jeans and kicking them into the corner along with his underwear, digging out a clean pair from the drawer. "Letting somebody take complete control over you, allowing that person to see you completely and utterly vulnerable… that takes an unbelievable amount of trust and affection… I mean, allowing someone to touch you that way, to trust that they won't hurt you any more than you want to be hurt… that's something special. That takes closeness."

Arthur crawled under the sheets, snuggling up next to Eames for warmth.

"What on earth even made you think of that kind of stuff?" Eames asked curiously.

"I was walking by one of those sex shops earlier, saw some of the stuff in the window."

"So… what, you're into S&M now?" Eames chuckled.

"No," Arthur replied. "I would never submit myself to anyone. I don't trust anyone enough to do that. I was just thinking it was surprising that there were people who could do that."

"Mm," Eames replied vaguely. "You don't trust anyone at all."

"No one's given me any reason to."

Silence.

"…but… but if I were to trust anyone… you'd come the closest."

"Is that so?" Eames asked, adjusting Arthur's shirt back onto his shoulder. "What would I have to do to get you to actually trust me, I wonder?"

"Oh, I don't know, let me tie you up and beat you?" Arthur teased, smacking Eames's chest playfully.

Eames laughed too, pressing a kiss to the top of the boy's head. "I don't know, perhaps we could give it a go. I've been discovering all kinds of surprising things about my sexuality lately."

"It's kind of depressing that I'm the one teaching you how to master the art of sex, you know," Arthur chuckled. "Shouldn't you be the one teaching me?"

"There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about that," Eames admitted quietly. "I worry about you, you know?"

"I don't know why."

"…because… Well, because you give me reason to all the time. I just want you taken care of, darling. There isn't anything wrong with that, is there?"

"Well… yeah, actually, there is," Arthur said, sitting up on his elbow. "I mean… I'm not your son or your ward. I'm not your boyfriend or your student… I'm just… Arthur. I'm just this random kid you met in the park, and now you've gone and done all this nice stuff for me, and all I've done in return is suck your cock, and you didn't even want me to do that. Not that I mind all the attention or the help, but… I guess I just don't understand why."

Eames chewed on his bottom lip, hunting for the right words, but all he could come up with was, "…because… because you were right about me… I'm lonely, and… and when you're around, it's not quite so bad. I feel… useful, important… _wanted_ , really… When you're around, I don't feel invisible either."

"Oh," Arthur whispered.

Eames hadn't realized just how personal that statement was until he saw Arthur's expression. He feared he might have revealed too much and scared the boy (it was certainly terrifying for himself)… but then Arthur just sank down next to him again, pressing himself as impossibly close to Eames as he possibly could.

"No one's ever said anything like that to me before," Arthur murmured.

Eames was pretty sure no one had really told Arthur that they loved him before and meant it either, but Eames wasn't about to go and do that…

…even if it very well could have been true…

Eames wasn't about to go and say something regrettable and _really_ freak the boy out. After all, Arthur didn't seem too terribly capable of _trust_ , much less _love_. Besides, Eames wasn't positive that _love_ was even what he was feeling. He'd never really and truthfully been in love before, and it just didn't seem possible for him to fall for the very bratty, very _young_ homeless male prostitute.

That just wouldn't do.

Still, he did wonder just what the feeling in his heart was when he had the boy pressed against him. It was warm and sweet and calming and… and it most definitely filled up that void in his heart. He wouldn't go jumping to any conclusions, even if he _had_ never felt quite this way before.

Right now, everything was _fine_.

Saying something, changing something… that would only inevitably lead to disaster…

…even if Arthur already was a disaster.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Eames is a burned out university professor who goes to the park for lunch to get away from the chaos of his life. There he meets 16-year-old Arthur and begins to befriend him for his ability to have an intelligent conversation with him. When he discovers the boy is homeless, he decides to take care of him, but things with Arthur get more complicated than he could ever expect.

Part Eight

While Eames slept, he started to dream.

In the dream he found himself, oddly enough, in his own bed with Arthur straddling his waist. The boy looked down at him blank-faced, the same expression he'd had before when he'd started babbling nonsense, only this time his eyes had no whites to them. There was nothing but blackness there, two bullet holes glaring straight into Eames's soul, looking at all of him at once. He was completely naked, ashen and bruised, but Eames just couldn't look away from those soulless eyes.

"Arthur," Eames started to say, but the boy put his finger to his lips and shushed him.

"Do you think I'm beautiful?" Arthur asked, voice light but otherwise eerily expressionless, tilting his head to the side.

"Y… yes…" Eames said hesitantly. "Normally, I do, but your _eyes_ , darling—"

Arthur pressed his fingers back to Eames's lips, silencing him. "You love me," he said, grinning. There was something stilted and unnerving about his smile. Perhaps it was the sharpness of his teeth, not pointed, but unusually noticeable.

"I never said that," Eames said.

"You didn't have to," Arthur replied, looking around the room. "How do you love someone you can't possibly trust?"

"I—"

"Oh, don't worry. I have the answer to the question. I'll tell you."

Eames closed his mouth again, staring worriedly at the boy. "Arth—"

"You can love someone you don't trust when you don't actually _know_ the person at all. It's not _real_ by any means, but to you it is. Of course it is. See…" he trailed a finger down the side of Eames's face, across Eames's lips, down his chin, and along his jugular. "See, the thing is, the thing _is_ … You were so desperate for a human connection that you went and fabricated one with someone nobody else knows exists, not really… You chose me because you can have me—"

He touched his forehead. "All."

His nose. "To."

His mouth. "Your."

His Adam's apple. "Self."

"How do you—"

Arthur silenced him again, this time by clamping a hand over his mouth the way Eames had done him in the kitchen before they'd kissed.

"You've made a grave error, Mr. Eames," Arthur said, face and voice dropping into a terrifyingly vacant daze. "You've misunderstood. You think as long as no one knows that I'm here, everything is picture perfect. You get to have me, and no one else does. It doesn't matter what you do to me or with me because I fucking _belong_ to you, and no one even knows I'm here. There will be someone for you to talk to when you get home from your shitty job, someone to steal away your loneliness in the privacy and darkness of your bedroom whenever you're feeling sad. However…"

He was tracing his finger lazily along Eames's collarbone then, and by the way Arthur's eyes looked, Eames couldn't tell where he was looking.

"However, the problem is, you've gone and put blinders on, haven't you? You won't let yourself realize that I could be, that I probably _am… no, definitely_ fucking other guys besides you. After all, where did all the money come from? I lied about selling clothes, and you don't make that kind of money panhandling."

Eames couldn't reply since Arthur's hand was still clamped quite tightly over his mouth, but that didn't mean he didn't try. Arthur continued talking, despite Eames's stifled protests, "I could be disease ridden, you know. Fucking around with all those random guys, I could have every STI and STD in the book. I could be giving all of those diseases to you, but you don't want to believe someone my age is capable of such a thing. It's too depressing, too _scary_ to think about, so you don't. Ha, you thought _I_ was suffering from some fucked up coping mechanisms."

Eames made a muffled sound.

"I could be digging out your credit cards while you're sleeping, clearing out your bank account a few dollars at a time. You haven't even checked, have you? You've put your life in danger because you're _lonely_. Pff, and you thought _I_ needed therapy."

There was the distant sound of ringing, and Arthur kept looking at him as he said, voice weird and echoing, "How do you turn this thing off? How do… is it off?... Whatever…"

Eames was confused but quickly forgot about it when Arthur knelt down close to his ear and said, "You need to wake up, Eames, and face reality. All you're accomplishing this way…" he scraped his nails across Eames's chest, leaving impossibly deep, ruby red gashes. "All you are accomplishing is your own self destruction. You're letting me _tear you apart_."

"Fuck!" Eames shouted as Arthur removed his hand to start clawing him apart, ripping away his skin and muscles with no effort whatsoever. "STOP—"

"You're doing it to yourself!" Arthur shouted, howling with laughter, and Eames was _terrified_.

He jolted awake, gasping for air, hands scrambling over his chest to block the non-existent wounds. Slowly he came back to himself to find Arthur still asleep next to him, the first dregs of dawn peeking through the windows, and no ghastly destruction across his body.

"Fuck…" he whispered, rolling out of bed. Arthur didn't even move.

Something hit Eames then, perhaps just the lingering words of dream Arthur that had clearly been a part of his own subconscious screaming for attention, and he found himself marching into his living room, eyes wide and ferocious. There in the corner of the foyer, he found what he was hunting, only knowing he was hunting it when he saw it—Arthur's backpack.

He fell to his knees and zipped open the largest pocket. Inside he found several library books, his old pair of clothes, dozens of fake I.D.s with men looking similar to Arthur and some with actual pictures of Arthur… and then he found paperwork, an insanely large pile of it from different free clinics around town, all with the names from the fake I.D.s, dating back as far as three years.

All of them were tests for STIs and STDs. Most of them showed up clean, but a couple from a year or so back revealed a case of gonorrhea that seemed to have taken a couple of weeks to get rid of. One of them had even showed an early case of syphilis that had been, thankfully, nipped in the bud before causing any actual damage.

That explained why, in the second pocket, along with a pile of cigarettes of all different brands, there were empty medication bottles for each illness, the dates on them long expired.

The smallest pocket revealed an impressive wad of cash, and a tiny, black notebook. Eames wet his lips and ball-parked the amount to be nearly three hundred dollars. He opened up the little notebook and came across a ripped photograph of a thin, tired woman with limp dark hair, wearing a pink top and still looking like she was frowning even though she wasn't. He turned the picture like he would a page to find on the first page… a name.

In what he could only assume was Arthur's inelegant chicken scratch writing, it read:

**Jeremiah**

**Good money, handsy, doesn't like you to look at him**

He flipped a few pages to find:

**Diego**

**~~Carrys~~ ** **carries a gun; always be nice**

**Likes to come on your face so always pull off**

Page upon page revealed more of the same. Mason always wants things done quickly because he has to get back to work; Demarcus likes it when you call him 'daddy'; Carter likes it rough; leave Paul alone when he's strung out on meth; Micah likes to try and get out without paying so don't offer him services unless he shows you the money first…

Eames…

**Eames**

**Doesn't care what you do as long as you touch him.**

Eames swallowed the knot that formed in his throat, and for a moment he feared he couldn't breathe. His hands were trembling as he turned to the next page to find nothing there except for a business card for someone Eames didn't know. His vision blurred, and for a second he thought he might black out, but when the second passed, he heard the bedroom door creaking open.

"What are you—" Arthur started but seemed to stop when he saw exactly _what_ Eames was doing.

"What is all this?" Eames asked quietly, moving to his feet.

"What do you mean—why are you going through my—"

Eames turned to look at him, and it was as if the spell had been broken.

Eames saw clearly for the first time in days, as if he'd been drunk and finally sobered up.

Arthur wasn't a sweet, misunderstood boy in need of help that fit snugly into Eames's pocket of loneliness.

He was a whore.

He was a filthy, manipulative bastard and a whore, playing Eames for all he was worth, devouring every inch of him until there was nothing left. He wasn't letting Eames use him; he was _using_ Eames, playing coy and sad when Eames started to even give an inkling that he was getting wise to his schemes.

It was a _game_. It was always a game.

Eames should have seen it long before now, but disdain at himself was only part of the way the rage boiled up in him like a volcano about to blow its lid.

" _What is all this_?" Eames shouted, throwing down the notebook.

"I never said you could go through—" Arthur started, but Eames wasn't going to let him do the talking, not this time.

"You are in _my_ flat!" Eames yelled. "Everything you've brought in here belongs to me, and I have a _right_ to know what the fuck it is you are up to!"

Arthur took a step back, lower lip quivering a little. "…I—I don't…"

"No, I don't care about your trust issues or your fears or your compulsions… I don't _care_ , all right? I let you come into my home. I didn't ask _anything_ , not _anything_ of you except that you stop whoring yourself out to other men. I didn't tell you to get a job, to go back to school, none of that because I felt like it wasn't my place to—but… but I didn't want any of your illegal activities linked back to me, and you couldn't even do that _one thing_ that I asked!"

"I had to!" Arthur tried to explain, expression turning desperate. "You don't understand—"

" _No, I don't bloody understand_! You haven't told me one bloody thing! You just expect me to understand when you say nothing? You expect me to be a fucking psychic?"

"No, but—"

"But nothing! You think I'm an idiot, don't you! You expected me to just let all of this go, to let you keep up this game? You're sick, and I'm letting your sickness infect me."

"I'm not sick, I—I'm clean, I swear—"

"I'm not talking about your dick," Eames spat. "It may be the only thing you think with, but it isn't the only thing I think with."

Arthur awkwardly retreated another step.

"Now… now, I know you're not completely to blame about this—I—I let this go on for far too long. I pretended there wasn't a problem for far too long. I've let you _control_ me, and it should have stopped a long time ago. I never should have let it _start_ actually."

"Um… okay, what—"

"No, _no_ , you don't talk right now. I need you to listen to me, you got that? Just—listen."

Arthur's expression was unreadable, but he appeared to be paying attention, eyes locked on Eames, lips pressed together, fists nervously clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"If you're going to stay here, you're going to have to abide by my rules," Eames said firmly. "I'm not going to take any more of this bollocks. If you're going to live here in my flat, you are going to study and work to get a GED, and you're going to look for a real job—there will be no more whoring yourself out to any neighbor you happen to come across… a—and you're going to be _honest_ with me. There's not going to be any more of this cryptic bullshit, this keeping to yourself about things. I want to know what _really_ happened to you. I want to know who hurt you and made you act the way you do. I need to know what's happened to you. I need you to fucking _trust me_."

"That's not fair—"

"It _is_ fair!" Eames shouted. "I _deserve_ that much, Arthur, considering I've never given you a reason not to trust me! I've taken you into my home, and I've taken care of you, but I'm not going to let you play me anymore. If you don't abide by these rules, then I'm taking you to a shelter, do you understand?"

"—but—"

" _Do you understand_?"

Arthur shut his mouth, looked at the floor. After a full minute of silence, he said, "…I need that money… Any 'real' job I get won't be enough. All of that money in my bag is just from Thursday and Friday."

"Why do you need to make so much, Arthur? I feed you, I clothe you, I give you a roof over your head, and I keep you clean, and I don't ask for any sort of reimbursement. Why do you need so much money?"

"…b…because th—that guy charges by the hour, even when he doesn't find anything," Arthur stammered, pointing at the notebook, no—at the business card that had been shoved into the notebook.

Eames picked up the card and really examined it. "…A private investigator?" he questioned. "Why on earth would you need one of these?"

"I'm…"

Eames stared at him, waiting for his answer.

"Forget it," Arthur said, tugging off Eames's shirt and tossing it at him, digging out his old pair of clothes. "I can't follow those rules, so I'm out of here."

"What?" Eames asked, stunned. "You—you didn't even _try_ —"

"I only came here because you offered," Arthur said, tugging his shirt over his head, frowning deeply. "Now, you're assuming that you can control what I do, make me into the perfect little angel you thought I was, and I can't—I can't do that. I'm not doing that. It's just like you said. It wasn't your place, and it still isn't, so I won't do that."

"Arthur, I'm trying to _help_ you—"

"I never said that I _wanted_ to be _helped_!" Arthur shouted, jaw set.

Silence.

Arthur took a shaky breath and continued, more quietly, "I never said I wanted your help, Eames… I was doing just fine on my own. You offered to let me come to your place, and I did, but from the beginning it was clear on both sides that I could leave whenever I wanted to. I'm not your son, and I'm not your boyfriend. You don't actually have any right to tell me how to live."

"Arthur, please… There are better ways to make money than being a whore."

"Not any that I know… if there was, I wouldn't be doing it still."

"There _are_. You can go to school, get into college. You're already so smart, smarter than I was at your age. You could do it—"

"There isn't enough _time_!" Arthur explained, voice lending towards desperation. "You don't understand! The more time I wait around, the less likely it'll be that I'll even find her!"

"Find who?"

Arthur's chest was heaving like he'd run a marathon, tears welling up in his eyes but not falling, never falling. "…my mother…" he whispered.

Eames was silent, taking that information is as Arthur repacked all of the things Eames had scattered. The woman in the picture must have been her. It seemed so obvious now. "Arthur…" he said again, gently.

"I have to find her," Arthur said, sliding his bag over his shoulder. "I have to know why she left me. I've been looking for her since day one. I just… I need to know… and I can't do it on my own. If anyone can find her, it's this P.I. person, this Walt Phillips guy… but it isn't cheap, and I do what I have to do. I'm fine. I have rules, and people abide by—"

"Always?" Eames asked, but he knew Arthur would lie if he even answered at all.

Arthur chose not to answer.

"I appreciate you thinking I'm capable of living a normal life, but we both know it's too late for that. Stop looking at the world like a dreamy-eyed kid, Eames."

"It's never too late, darling," Eames whispered, touching his face gently. "I can help you pay the man—"

" _No_."

"—but—"

"I can't, I _won't_ … I can handle my own problems on my own. I won't let you do that. I'm not a fucking charity case yet… I already owe you too much as it is."

"You don't owe me anything."

"I do. I really do…" Arthur stared at the floor, tugging at his shirt. "You've spent money on me, you've been really nice to me, and I've let you do it. I was just enjoying the special treatment… I… I didn't realize how much I was hurting you by treating you that way. I'm kind of selfish, so I don't really pay that much attention most of the time to what's happening to other people around me… and I thought that you weren't any different from the other guys… that you just wanted me for sexual favors because that's all anyone's ever wanted me for… but you're not… like them…"

Eames took his words with a grain of salt. As much as he wanted to let the boy fall into his arms and cry with those big dark eyes of his, but he didn't want to be fooled again. Arthur could be pulling it out of his arse, Eames reminded himself, feigning sadness and pitifulness to get Eames's sympathy, to get him to take back the things he said, to let him continue with his tirade through Eames's existence. He couldn't fall for it, couldn't let himself get wrapped up in the boy's spell just because he was so pathetically lonely. He'd woken up from all of that now.

Still, he felt it important to say, "No, I'm _not_ like them. I never was like them. I was trying to give you some kind of soft place to fall… What we've done… it never would have gotten this far, it never would have _happened_ , if you hadn't started it. I didn't bring you here because I wanted to fuck you or anything. I brought you here because I liked you and I—"

"You felt sorry for me?" Arthur replied, smirking ruefully. "You're a real asshole, you know that?"

Eames scoffed, "because I helped you?"

"I told you, I didn't _need_ any help!"

"You were a homeless teenager selling your body for money to live off of!" Eames exclaimed. "You don't realize how fucked up that is? If you don't, you need even more help than I realized!"

"I told you that I didn't have a choice—"

"I _gave_ you a choice!" Eames cried.

Silence.

"I gave you a choice," Eames repeated. "I have offered to take care of you in exchange for you doing nothing but taking care of yourself so I don't have to do it pointlessly. You're going to kill yourself on the streets, and I'm not going to be there to bloody save you. Do you understand that? You are going to _die_ out there, and I can't help you if you won't let me… Please, Arthur… All I'm asking for is your trust. Just this once put some _faith_ in someone, _please_."

Arthur just shook his head, giving him that same look he had that night in the kitchen before Eames had first kissed him.

"I'm sorry, Eames," he said, voice wobbly.

"You're not sorry," Eames mumbled, his voice a mixture of regret and anger. "I may not have been like those other men, but you bloody treated me like one, now didn't you?"

Arthur straightened up and said quietly, "You're right…"

Eames looked up.

"I'm not sorry," Arthur said, and he left, door slamming shut behind him.

Eames was alone.

…At least… he was for a few minutes.

There was a pounding on his door and Eames immediately went to it, expecting Arthur to be back, scared and willing to bend to Eames's commands and—

It was Yusuf.

Eames just stared at him for far too long and then said, "What are you doing here?"

"I rang you up," Yusuf said as if he was leading up to something, and Eames for one had a bad feeling about what it was.

He apparently had a good reason.

"I heard Arthur."

Well, that explained that bizarre moment in the middle of his nightmare, Eames thought. "What makes you think it was Arthur?" Eames asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Well, it certainly wasn't your voice by any means," Yusuf growled, shoving his way inside. "Why in bloody hell was he answering your _mobile_ , Eames? Why was he _here_ at five in the morning?"

"Yusuf—"

"He was telling the truth, wasn't he? At the McDonald's, when he said you were fucking—Oh, God, Eames, a bloody _teenager_? _Really_?"

"You're making assumptions," Eames huffed.

"Why did he answer your phone then?" Yusuf asked, eyes wide and lips thin, though it did seem that he was giving Eames the opportunity to explain himself at least.

"I let him sleep here because it's cold outside," Eames grumbled, shuffling to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. "I told you, Yusuf, he's homeless. I bummed out on the settee and let him sleep in the bed. I must have left my phone in my room. You can go check. He's gone now."

That hurt to say more than he expected.

"Eames… that can't be all… Please tell me what's really going on. I'm your best mate, and you know that you can trust me. Just tell me."

Eames hesitated, fumbling with his tea, but all of a sudden it came spilling out. He told Yusuf everything (except for the kissing and sex of course—he didn't want to be arrested), explained that he'd been so lonely and Arthur had made him feel better but then Eames realized he was being used, being tricked. He realized that Arthur was a prostitute and wouldn't stop selling himself even after Eames commanded him to. He told Yusuf about Arthur's weird habits, how Eames thought something absolutely terrible must have happened to him, how he felt sorry for him and wanted to help him get better.

By the time he'd finished, the kettle was whistling, and he didn't feel even a little better. Yusuf was staring at his shoulders as if he could bore holes into them, and Eames for one didn't want to turn around and subject his face to that kind of intensity.

"Is that all?" Yusuf asked gravely, as if he knew Eames was leaving things out.

"That's all," Eames said cheerlessly. "He's gone now. He wouldn't comply with my demands, and he left. I feel so stupid for ever thinking he was anything more than he was."

Eames poured two cups of tea and handed one to Yusuf, dropping into a chair and sipping at it. "I just wanted to help him, Yusuf. I liked him. I thought that a little bit of TLC would get him back on track, but I guess I was just…"

"An idiot?"

"Yeah."

Yusuf took a seat across from him, ignoring his tea. "Just cut your losses, Eames. Clearly he's just some psychopath. You probably should have put him in an institution."

"I didn't want to believe he was crazy…" Eames said quietly.

"Why?"

"…because we related so well. I… I don't want to believe that _I've_ gone insane, really and truly insane just because of my—"

 _Completely life-shattering loneliness and isolation_.

"…my... inability to accurately judge character."

"Eames, you just made a mistake. We all do. You took him in because you thought you could help him, but some people like that just can't be saved. It's best to just move on and let it go. Don't let it bother you anymore. _C'est la vie_ and all that."

"Yeah… I suppose that you're probably right about that… I'm better off…"

But…

 _I think I might love him_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Eames is a burned out university professor who goes to the park for lunch to get away from the chaos of his life. There he meets 16-year-old Arthur and begins to befriend him for his ability to have an intelligent conversation with him. When he discovers the boy is homeless, he decides to take care of him, but things with Arthur get more complicated than he could ever expect.

Part Nine

"I've gotten some complaints."

Eames stood in front of Cobb's desk, hands in his pockets, eyes staring at the floor. "Yes, sir," Eames said, "I realize that I was out of line the other day. I said some things I shouldn't have said."

"That's true," Cobb said, running a hand over his hair. "You cursed in the middle of class, badmouthed the students."

"Yes, sir… I've been having some personal problems, and while that's not an excuse, I have taken care of them… I promise I won't let it happen again."

"Yes, well…" Cobb said, sitting back in his chair. "They do say that you're supposed to leave your problems at the door when you come to work, but I don't think that's possible. I understand how it can affect you."

"It still doesn't excuse my behavior, and I apologize," Eames said. Truthfully, he wasn't sorry for anything he'd said and could in fact not give a shit if he hurt anyone's feelings, but he certainly didn't want to be in trouble, especially when his boss was a friend. He needed people on his side at the moment, needed to feel liked and not used by someone.

"It's all right," Cobb said with a sigh. "Just don't let it happen again, all right? You've been burning the candle at both ends, so try and let a little air out of your tires once in a while, all right? The end of the semester is tough on all of us, and I don't want to see you crack under pressure."

If anyone knew about cracking under pressure, it was Cobb. Eames had come into his office more than once during finals weeks of the past and found things tossed about and Cobb's hair looking mysteriously similar to a palm tree. Cobb wasn't quite as good at hiding his insanity as he thought he was, but Eames wasn't going to be the one to mention it.

"I'll be fine now," Eames assured him. "No need to worry about me, Cobb."

…and there wasn't any need.

Eames went to class and taught with renewed vigor. He threw himself into his work because he literally had nothing else to do but think of Arthur. He would not, could not allow himself to do any such thing.

No matter his feelings, he had to forget about Arthur, for his own protection. It didn't matter if he was beautiful or charming or out there all alone. Arthur had made his bed, and now he had to lie in it (and Eames was sure Arthur would have no problem lying in any sense of the word).

No, Arthur had been nothing but one mistake of gigantic proportions. Yusuf was right to tell Eames that he was better off without him in his life. Eames didn't have to worry about STDs or if Arthur was stealing from him or if he was going to get weird tonight and do something like lock himself in the bathroom or break things or… well, Arthur was capable of a lot more than Eames had expected when they'd met. It could have been any number of things that Arthur could have done.

Eames was much safer. He never should have trusted him in the first place. It was best just to forget him.

…If only it were that easy.

The problem was, Arthur wasn't that easy to forget.

It wasn't so much that Arthur's memory lingered throughout Eames's flat (it did for a few days but Arthur honestly hadn't been there long enough to leave a permanent imprint anywhere). Sure, when Eames found Arthur's clothes still in the drawer, _that_ was difficult, yes…

…and _yeah_ , when he washed the green bowl Arthur liked to eat out of, he had a little difficulty…

…and _sure_ , Eames hadn't really gotten up the nerve to take the book Arthur had been reading off of the coffee table and put it back on the shelf just yet or washed the sheets of his bed or thrown the ashes from his ashtray on the balcony in the garbage…

No, Arthur's little memory around the house wasn't the problem, even if it very much did exist. The problem was that Eames seemed to see Arthur _everywhere_.

Eames had to stop going to the park, of course. He'd been stupid enough to assume Arthur wouldn't show his face there if Eames had lunch there, but he did. No, Arthur wasn't waiting on the bench for him when he got there. In fact, he didn't even approach him. Eames just _noticed_ him, halfway across the park, hunched with his arms wrapped around himself, a cigarette dangling between his lips, throwing on a fake smile for the much older gentleman he was talking to.

It sickened Eames so much that he threw his lunch away and decided not to return to the park.

Ever.

Of course, avoiding the park didn't free him from seeing him, not at all. The very next weekend, Eames was leaving the grocer's to notice Arthur across the street, arguing with another clearly homeless person.

He saw Arthur two evenings later, curled up on a bench, asleep.

He caught eye contact with Arthur four days later at the library, but Arthur quickly looked away.

He spotted him getting thrown out of the goodwill an afternoon later.

Two days later, he saw Arthur get into a car with another guy.

Eames couldn't seem to escape him, not even in his dreams where he would wake up reaching for the warm lump beside him that wasn't actually there. He seldom dreamed of fucking him, of one touching the other; most of the time, he just dreamed of his smile—the crinkle of his eyes, the appearance of dimples, the line of slightly yellowed teeth… the only time he looked his age, the only time when he didn't look like he was faking his emotions.

It was absolute _misery._

So, Eames did the only thing he could do.

He buried himself even more deeply into his work, rereading books on psychology for the hell of it, constantly coming up with study guides and ideas to help his students while he was out and always writing them down in his notes. When he wasn't writing, he of course had his nose in books—first just the psychology books, then any book he could get his hands on. He did anything he could not to pay any mind to the people around him (other than at school where he knew he was safe from Arthur—not that he was _in danger_ by any means… but still).

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, Eames actually started taking the time to get to know his students. He didn't ask anything outright or anything, but he came to remember that he learned a hell of a lot more when he actually started listening. They weren't just spoiled, rich wankers (well, some of them were). Some of them were actually pretty good kids. He really started to pay attention to how heavy their workloads really were, how stressed they were about finals. It wasn't that the students lacked passion; they just didn't necessarily have it for psychology. Eames's class was on their lists of pre-requisites, and they'd had no choice but to take it. So many had too much on their plate, and his class had simply fallen to the wayside, since he'd gone and made them believe he didn't care about them anyway.

When he started paying attention, so did they.

Suddenly, his class was back to it was when he'd first started—laughing, smiling faces and curious, focused minds. Eames felt like such a fool. He'd been the one holding them back, not them, but he couldn't worry about it anymore. He'd fixed his issues, and he'd do the best he could not to slip up again just because he was feeling lonely and unsatisfied with life.

So, Arthur's existence in his life hadn't been a complete disaster. If anything, the boy had gotten him off his ass and forced him to start taking charge of the dissatisfaction he'd been dealing with for so long. He certainly had realized that his life wasn't so goddamned bad.

…but Arthur brought all of his angst on himself.

Eames didn't care anymore.

At least, that was what he told himself every morning when he'd wake up.

…and one morning, he woke up, put the book back on the shelf, tossed out the cigarette ashes, threw his sheets in the wash, ate out of the green bowl, and walked to the bus stop.

He didn't see Arthur.

In fact, over the next few days, weeks even, he didn't see him at all. It was as if he had disappeared, and maybe he had. Maybe he had vanished from the city, hitchhiked somewhere else in his search…

…Maybe…

…or perhaps Arthur had become as invisible to Eames as he was to everybody else.

* * *

Finals ended.

Most of Eames's class passed, shockingly (he may have been a bit gentle with their scores considering they had tried so hard).

Eames was actually in a pretty good mood…

…apart from the fact that he was completely empty inside, but that was irrelevant.

The play had actually gone off without a hitch as well, considering they'd only had a limited three and half weeks to rehearse (it had taken way too long for Eames to get the go-ahead to actually do a show, considering by the time he'd gotten what he wanted he hadn't wanted it anymore). Eames even went out with the cast after opening night and drank until he couldn't really remember what he was doing. The claps on the back from students and the devious grins of Robert Fischer and his friends the next day suggested he'd had a good time.

Eames had figured he'd go give it another try the next night, but at that time he went out on his own and came out of a blackout kissing a man. Eames was so alarmed by it that he left the guy where he was standing and stumbled home.

He wasn't sure why he was so upset. He'd been an attractive bloke, and a damned good kisser considering the alcohol, and it wasn't like Eames had failed to realize he was a homosexual… He knew that… It wasn't even so much the idea of him being caught out of the closet by one of his students or friends.

It _was_ however, the first time he really thought about Arthur in a while.

After all, Arthur had been the first male he'd ever kissed and the only kiss he'd genuinely gotten excited about. Kissing someone else almost felt like… _cheating_ , but that didn't make any sense because they'd never been together by any means…

It was just that he was still in love with Arthur.

Realizing that, or rather admitting to it, felt like a sledgehammer to his gut.

He didn't know how it was possible. He'd seen through Arthur's charade, had let him leave, had done his best not to come into contact with him since. There was no reason why he should have been harboring any feelings for him (other than resent and maybe the occasional bout of pity).

…but there they were, sneaking up on him all of a sudden and leaving him lost.

The feeling passed after that night, but Eames could no longer fool himself.

He was still in love with Arthur, and he would just have to deal with that until it faded or until he died (whichever came first). He just wished he knew _how_ to deal with that information, how to process it, how to store it away. It was frustrating and devastating and there was literally _nothing_ he could do about it.

The worst part was that he would have given anything just to _see_ Arthur, just in passing, just to make sure that he was okay, just _once_ … but the boy really had seemed to disappear from his usual haunts. Eames didn't actively look for him, but considering he'd been seeing him everywhere until he actively tried _not_ to, he'd expected to spot him at least once.

…and it was getting so cold too… It was the coldest winter they'd had in several years. There was already snow on the ground and more in the forecast.

He dreamed about him every night, eyes dark as nighttime watching him from every shadow.

* * *

Cobb invited all of the teachers out for a staff Christmas party a week before the holiday at a pub in the busiest part of town. Eames would have just as well stayed in and slept (that seemed to be all he was doing lately), but Yusuf came by to pick him up, and it wasn't as if he could let Yusuf know how miserable he was. Eames really was a damned good actor.

Once he got a couple of bottles of liquor in his system, it was easier, but Eames didn't make the mistake of getting piss drunk. He spaced out his drinking so that he only suffered from a light buzz, socializing with the people he normally saw but never talked to at work. He discovered from this that most of them were as burnt out as he had been; it was no wonder his students had been so lazy and careless. It was as if the whole school had been consumed by disappointment. Eames put the information in his pocket and decided to see if he could change things up all over campus first thing next semester. At least it would give him something to do.

The party was a fun distraction, Eames thanking Mal for the sweater she'd purchased him, Eames laughing with Yusuf about this or that. He was the perfect guest, but it felt eerily similar to how he'd behaved in college, putting on a show for everyone around him in the hopes that he too could one day believe it. It was alarmingly less effective these days.

"Eames," Yusuf said, sipping at a cola (after all, he was driving). "Don't look so down in the dumps! It's the holidays!"

"I'm not down in the dumps," Eames assured Yusuf, plastering on his best and brightest smile. It was lacking its usual wattage, but it was enough to convince Yusuf in the smoky bar that smelled like Arthur's cigarettes. "I'm tired. All those late nights are starting to catch up with me."

"What late nights? You never came out to the clubs with me!" Yusuf chuckled, clapping him on the back.

"Some of us do our work in the evenings, Yusuf," Eames said with a smirk. "I'd rather not spend my time being the creepy old bloke in the club, thank you very much."

"You've got to come out with me sometime at least, Eames. You're always locked up in that flat of yours. What kind of life is that?"

The corners of Eames's mouth twitched, and all he could do was shrug.

He was back at square one, if not a million more steps backwards.

He allowed himself a little sigh when Yusuf got up to flirt with the recently divorced Ms. Marling. It was nice to see Yusuf pursuing someone his own age, but it made Eames feel just that much more alone… and it wasn't like he hadn't done it to himself. He only had himself to blame for his loneliness. He was so afraid of being hurt that he gave up on people before they could give up on him (the habit he'd managed to pick up and break with his students, at least in a professional sense), and the one person he'd taken a chance on had been an absolutely terrible choice from the beginning.

Eames wanted to go home.

He didn't get to leave the bar until two hours later when Yusuf was done chatting up Ms. Marling and leaving with her phone number and a date.

They left the building, hunched in their coats as snow softly fluttered through the frigid night air, Yusuf joking and talking animatedly about his new prospect. Eames nodded and smiled, halfway listening, wishing that they hadn't had to park in a parking lot all the way down the street. It was too bloody cold.

Up ahead, a single figure walked out from an alleyway and hailed a taxi, and Eames got a bad feeling about him. At first Eames thought maybe he knew him, but no… he didn't recognize the smudge of a face from the distance he was at, and Eames had always been good with faces, even from far away. Perhaps it was just the stiff-shouldered stance he took while waiting for the car to pull up, impatient to get away. It made sense of course, given the weather, but… still…

"Do you know that bloke?" Eames asked Yusuf.

"What bloke?" Yusuf asked, looking up from his phone. He appeared to already be texting Ms. Marling.

Sure enough, the man was gone, the taxi disappearing into the snow.

Eames figured he must have been losing his mind.

At least he did until the two of them were closer, and he heard sobbing.

"What do you suppose—" Yusuf said, lifting his mobile phone in the air to shine light down the dark alley, concern lacing his features.

There was a body curled up in the snow.

No, not a body.

Arthur.

"Oh, my God," Eames found himself breathing, and he rushed to his side, crouching down in the snow. "Arthur. Arthur, can you hear me?" he asked, tugging the boy up by the arm. He was very nearly completely limp, crying and shivering.

Yusuf knelt down next to him. "Jesus Christ, what is he doing out here?" he asked.

Eames ignored him, shaking Arthur gently. "Arthur, it's me, it's Eames. _Arthur_."

Arthur choked on a sob and fell into a fit of coughs, nearly knocking himself out of Eames's arms. " _Eames_ …" he wailed, and Eames pulled him close to his chest to try and warm him up.

"Yusuf, go get the car. We need to get him in some heat _right now_ ," Eames begged, and Yusuf immediately jumped to his feet and took off running.

"Arthur," Eames said gently, rocking him back and forth. "Arthur, darling, where is your bag? Where is your bag? Why aren't you inside somewhere? You could have taken some of that money and gone inside."

"G—got mugged—l—l—last week," Arthur stammered, taking in a few shallow breaths before coughing violently. "B—b—been going t—to the lib—rary to stay warm, b—but it's c—closed now. Got k—kicked out of… of everywhere else. C—couldn't pay to stay." He hacked into his trembling hands.

He wasn't even wearing _gloves_. It was a miracle he still had his fingers.

"Just let me die…" Arthur sobbed, and Eames pulled him ever closer, wiping at his tears with his gloved hand.

"I'm not going to do that," Eames told him.

"D—didn't mean what I said…" Arthur said weakly, hands falling from his mouth to reveal a nasty mess of sputum. "I was… I was so—sorry."

"Shh, you don't need to talk right now," Eames told him, just as Yusuf's car was pulling up next to the alleyway.

Eames lifted Arthur into his arms and rushed him into the vehicle, Arthur's arms curling around his neck and holding on with as much strength as he could seem to muster (which didn't seem to be much).

"We should take him to the hospital," Yusuf said, once Eames had climbed into the backseat.

Arthur howled in terror, and Eames shook his head. "Just go back to my flat. Let's get him warmed up and coherent before we do anything like that."

Yusuf didn't look too happy with the suggestion but followed it just the same, probably because he feared Arthur would go scrambling for the car door if the idea of going to the hospital was breached again.

"What the fuck were you doing outside in the snow?" Yusuf asked Arthur, voice strained as he turned a corner a little more sharply than necessary.

"Didn't have anywhere else to go…" Arthur rasped and coughed into his coat sleeve so fiercely that it rattled his entire tiny frame. He was having a hard time breathing because of it, and the fact that he couldn't stop crying was definitely hindering it all the more. The cough was followed by a whimper and an automatic clawing of his chest.

It seemed to take forever to get to Eames's home, even though Yusuf was speeding and there didn't seem to be any other cars on the road. Arthur had stopped shivering quite so much by the time they arrived, stilling in Eames's arms but still sniffing, still coughing, still awake. The snow had melted on his clothing, leaving them soaking wet.

Eames made the walk up with Yusuf two steps at a time and only handed Arthur over to him when he needed to unlock the door. Arthur could stand by then, but he leaned against Yusuf with all of his body weight, gasping for air like he could never get enough of it.

"His heart is just racing," Yusuf said, feeling the boy's pulse in his neck.

Eames got the door unlocked and shoved his way inside, picking Arthur back up and carrying him over the threshold. "Yusuf, get me some towels and put a kettle on, would you? I'm going to get him out of these wet clothes."

Arthur was already shivering again.

Yusuf disappeared into the house and Eames gingerly carried Arthur to his bedroom, but when he went to sit him down to pull of his close, Arthur let out a yelp Eames had never heard from him before. Arthur wouldn't stop making the noise, squirming around in his grip sluggishly, until Eames laid him on his stomach instead, and then Eames understood why.

Yusuf returned with the towels to find Eames just staring dumbly momentarily. "Eames?" Yusuf asked. It was enough to knock him out of his stupor at least.

"I'm going to take your clothes off, Arthur. Is that okay?" Eames asked him softly.

Arthur stared at him with red, wet eyes and then buried his face into the pillow, nodding through another shaking cough.

Eames dropped his coat to the floor and then tugged Arthur's shirt off, whispering gently, "Lift your arms, love. That's it." He untied his shoes and tossed them in the corner, revealing Arthur's pale, blistered bare feet. He helped Arthur sit up on his knees, unbuttoning his jeans.

"Bring me one of those towels, Yusuf. Wet it down with warm water."

"O… okay…" Yusuf said and left to return a moment later with the towel as he asked. He seemed about ready to ask why until Eames pulled down Arthur's jeans and undergarments all at once, revealing the pink-stained skin and the blood plastered to the sides of his legs and on his ass.

Arthur buckled over with another sob that was more gasps for air than sound, and Eames took the towel, wiping at the mess while handing another one to Arthur to cough into.

"What _happened_?" Yusuf asked, at a loss for any other words he could say. "Jesus Christ…"

"What do you think happened?" Eames asked, voice a bit more biting than he'd expected.

Arthur cringed from the sharpness of Eames's voice, so Eames softened it again, petting his back gently as he said, "There now… it's all cleaned up."

Of course, it wasn't. Physically the blood was gone, but the mark was there. Arthur wasn't just going to _forget_. Eames knew he had a reason to feel bad about that man. He just wished he'd caught on that he was one of Arthur's customers sooner and hunted him down, gotten a better look at him, _something_.

Eames put Arthur in a pair of his boxer shorts and the same snowy white shirt he'd worn once before, not about to use the clothing he'd purchased for the boy in front of Yusuf (Arthur would likely think it odd that he still had it as well).

"Would you like some tea, Arthur?" Eames asked him, nearly whispering as he ran a hand through his hair again and again, hoping to provide some sort of comfort.

Arthur hacked into the towel and stared at Eames blearily. His lips were so chapped and pale, other than the brownish sputum at the corner. "I just want the pain to go away…" he whimpered, clawing at his chest again. He fell asleep moments later.

Eames stayed by his side, letting his curls drift through his hand for a few more minutes before moving, only noticing belatedly that Arthur had taken a weak grip of his shirt that he had to pull away from.

He shut the door quietly and joined Yusuf in the kitchen where the other man had finished with the tea, pouring it into mismatched cups. He had a very rare crease between his eyebrows, signaling that he was troubled.

"He's asleep," Eames said uselessly, voice catching in his throat a bit. His voice echoed eerily in the quietness of the room.

Yusuf nodded, pushing a slice of lemon around in his tea with a spoon pointlessly. Eames sat down next to him, sipping at his own tea but not really tasting it. They kept making subtle glances at each other, both of them waiting for the other to say something.

Eames broke first.

"He's sick," he said softly.

"He was raped," Yusuf responded with, and even though Eames knew it was true, it still felt like he'd been kicked in the nuts and then in the gut.

"S… seems so," Eames said, hating himself for not being able to come up with anything else.

"Eames," Yusuf said, looking up at him. "You can't blame yourself. You had perfectly good reasons for sending him out."

"Forgive me if it's difficult to see that after finding him half dead in the snow," Eames replied, staring at his reflection in his tea. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath and then letting it out through his nose, massaging a temple where a headache was blooming. "He needs a doctor, but I can't take him to the hospital. Do they still make house calls?"

"Some do," Yusuf said. "I've got a few friends in the medical profession. I'll call in a favor and see what I can get."

"Thanks…"

There was a long pause, the air heavy with their knowledge of the situation.

"After he gets well, what will you do?" Yusuf asked.

"I… I don't know…" Eames admitted, running a hand through his hair. "I suppose he and I need to talk. I'll give him the option again… and if he doesn't accept it, then… well, I don't know…"

"He needs help, Eames. Physical, mental, emotional."

"I can't make him do anything, Yusuf."

"I think you have more pull over him than you think. He immediately trusted it was you, even in the darkness, even through his fear."

"I'm the only one who's ever handled him like a human being rather than a piece of meat," Eames replied, surprising himself when he said it. He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze back to the tea, awkward, adding, "I don't know if that was my wisest of endeavors, mind you."

"Mm," Yusuf hummed, nodding, eyes downcast as well. "Underneath that smile of his is a manipulative bastard."

"Yusuf—"

"Underneath that manipulative bastard, there's a scared and broken young man."

Eames sighed again, nodding quietly. "I suppose we'll see, won't we?" he said and sipped at his tea. He still didn't taste it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Eames is a burned out university professor who goes to the park for lunch to get away from the chaos of his life. There he meets 16-year-old Arthur and begins to befriend him for his ability to have an intelligent conversation with him. When he discovers the boy is homeless, he decides to take care of him, but things with Arthur get more complicated than he could ever expect.

Part Ten

When Arthur woke up, it was with a ragged breath.

Eames sat in a chair by his bedside, watching over him and holding gently to his shoulder when he started desperately coughing and wheezing into the towel left near his face.

When he was finished, he blinked up at Eames as if questioning why he was there, where he was, breath coming out in shallow, rasping puffs, so Eames indulged him. "You're back at my flat. I found you in the snow. Do you remember?"

Arthur's face went blank momentarily as he backtracked, and then he slowly nodded. "My chest hurts," he croaked.

"A doctor is going to come here and check on you as soon as he can," Eames told him, stroking his hair. "You're sick, darling. You have a fever."

Arthur made a small sound, pulling the blankets more tightly over his frame. "You didn't have to bring me here," he said and fell into another fit of coughs.

"You were freezing to death."

"You said you wouldn't be there to save me… but you were…" he whispered scratchily. "I guess I just don't… understand…"

"It's all right, love. You just rest up. We'll talk more about all of this later, all right?"

"D…did I stain your friend's backseat?" Arthur asked. "If—if I did, can you tell him that I'm sorry? I didn't realize it was that bad—"

"Arthur," Eames said, eyebrows drooping, shock flashing across his face.

"Wh… what?" he asked, sniffing, staring up at Eames, expression identical. "It's… It's not a big deal…"

"Someone forced themselves on you," Eames said, the words tasting unpleasant on his tongue, "and you're concerned about the car's upholstery?"

"It's not a big deal," Arthur said again, rolling onto his other side, away from Eames. "It's happened before."

Even though Eames had assumed as much, it was still devastating to hear. His voice cracked when he explained, "It is a big deal…"

Arthur snorted and coughed. "It really isn't," he said. "I'm a whore. Sex is my job description. It isn't rape if you do it for a living."

"It is if you don't consent."

"Yeah," Arthur barked out a crackling laugh. "Who's going to believe the prostitute? 'Probably just mad that he didn't get paid'... It's really not a problem. I just wish he had…" he coughed again. "I wish he had waited until I wasn't so weak. I could barely stand… I doubt I was a good fuck."

"Are you listening to yourself?" Eames asked, voice more than a little brokenhearted.

Arthur clutched the towel close to him, hawking and hemming until his entire body quaked with it. When he fell limp on the bed, taking fast, thin gulps at the air, the towel was stained red.

"I wasn't…" Arthur mumbled throatily. "I wasn't _raped_. I'm fine…"

"Arthur, you were sobbing when I found you," Eames said gently.

"I wasn't... I was just…"

"You _were_ , darling. You don't remember. You were hysterical."

"No, I _wasn't_!" Arthur shrieked and hacked again, curling up into a ball.

Eames took him by one of his arms and pulled him back towards him, turning him back around and making him look at him. "Arthur," he said softly.

"I wasn't raped," he spat, eyes wet and hopeless.

Eames held onto Arthur's wrist, staring sadly into his eyes.

The door opened, and Yusuf peeked in, and Eames immediately turned his gaze away, releasing Arthur. "He's on his way," Yusuf said.

"Thanks," Eames said, getting out of his chair. "Yusuf, you don't have to stay if you don't want to. I'm sure you're tired. It's nearly five in the morning."

"It's all right," Yusuf said, shrugging it off. "I've stayed up longer than this. I'll stay until the doctor gets here and make sure things go all right."

Eames nodded in thanks and Yusuf left them alone to refill his cup of tea.

Arthur coughed and slumped back onto the bed. "I don't know why you're doing this…" Arthur moaned.

"You needed help," Eames told him, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress, pressing his knuckles against the side of Arthur's burning cheek.

"I didn't ask you to help me…" he said softly, coarsely. "This is just like before. You're helping me even though I never asked to be helped… I didn't _ask_ or _tell_ you to—"

"I know," Eames interrupted, cupping his cheek. "I don't care."

Arthur unconsciously leaned towards the coolness of Eames's hand, starting to tremble again. "You said you weren't going to be around to save me… but you were… I just want to know why…"

"It was purely coincidence," Eames told him, moving his fingertips to the side of Arthur's neck, feeling his pulse rushing under his fingertips. "What do you suppose would have happened if I hadn't been there?"

Arthur stared at the wall. "I don't know…" he mumbled. "I guess I… I guess I would have frozen to death since it hurt so much to move…"

"You're oddly calm about that."

"What difference does it make to anyone if I'm alive or dead?"

"It makes a difference to me."

"Yeah, right…"

Arthur rolled over again, away from Eames's hand, shutting his eyes. He was so exhausted that he was asleep within minutes, and all Eames could do was sit there.

"Darling," Eames whispered, tucking a loose curl behind Arthur's ear. "You have no idea."

* * *

The doctor, Dr. Neander, was about Yusuf and Eames's age, already starting to gray but had a youthful smile in his eyes. Eames explained what the situation was, and the man nodded, stroking his goatee thoughtfully, mumbling, "I see."

Eames wasn't sure what that 'I see' meant, but he followed him into the room anyway and sat nearby while the man examined Arthur. Arthur seemed hesitant to let the man even hear his cough, and he definitely didn't let him anywhere near his ass, even when Eames told him it would be okay. When Neander attempted it anyway, Arthur bolted out of the bed and into Eames's arms, screaming.

"He's not going to hurt you," Eames told him gently.

"It's none of his business!" Arthur shouted and buried his face into Eames's shirt. "I wasn't raped…"

Eames looked to the doctor, the corners of his mouth twitching a bit. "He's not bleeding anymore," he told him awkwardly. "I checked… I think physically he's okay down there."

"He'll need to be tested," the man said.

"I'll do it later," Arthur mumbled, not releasing his grip on Eames until Eames pushed him back down onto the bed. "Just leave me alone…"

"He's just trying to make you better," Eames told him, rubbing soothing circles on his shoulder with his thumb.

"What's the _point_?" Arthur shouted and fell into a fit of choking, coughing sobs, curling up in the middle of the bed.

Eames didn't ask why that was, even though he wanted to. He figured it was for the best to just leave Arthur be for the moment. If the boy didn't want to tell, then he wasn't going to. Eames had learned that much.

* * *

Once the doctor had finished his exam, he followed Eames out into the hallway and placed a hand on his shoulder. With Yusuf hovering close by, he explained, "He's got pneumonia. Thankfully it's a fairly mild case given the circumstances. He doesn't necessarily need to be hospitalized, unless his fever spikes over 104. Give him fluids and rest and the oral antibiotic I'm prescribing, and he should be better within about three to five days."

Eames nodded, wetting his lips awkwardly.

"However," the man continued softly, as if Arthur was listening in on them (he wasn't. He'd conked out as soon as the doctor had left him alone). "However, I do believe he has some definitive trauma from the previous events. I'd suggest taking him to a mental health facility as soon as he's physically well enough. He needs some serious help, and it's not the kind of help I can provide."

"Ah… yes… thank you," Eames mumbled and shook his hand, accepting the prescription.

"If you have any questions, call me," Neander said, and within a few minutes, he was gone.

"Poor thing," Yusuf supplied, if only to fill the silence.

Eames sighed, scratching a hand through his hair and messing it up. "I'll talk to him when his fever's down."

"What if he refuses to go?" Yusuf asked. Neither of them had to specify what he was speaking of.

"Well, he's not my son, he's not my brother, he's not my boyfriend. I don't even know if he's my friend, really… If he refuses to go, then I'll have to let him leave. It's his life."

"Yes, but he's doing a right terrible job with it. I think as a human being you at least have a right to step in at some point, don't you? When did you become so spineless?"

Eames looked back at Yusuf, a little offended, even though he had a hell of a point. Eames really had been terribly spineless when it came to Arthur. It all boiled down to his insistence on pretending there wasn't anything wrong so that he could just live in his happy fantasy land. He wanted to let Arthur consume and encompass all of his time at home and turn it into something better than what it was, so that when he had to go out into the world and pretend he was alone and all right with it, it was easier.

…but it wasn't all right. It wasn't, and it never had been, and that wasn't going to change just because he wanted it to.

Yes, he loved Arthur… but also, Arthur was a brat, too young for the world he'd grown up in, a user and an abuser. Eames not only deserved better but needed better, and despite his fondness, he knew that this current Arthur was not a person he could be with, no matter how much that selfish and lonely part of him wanted to be.

However.

However, just because Eames knew that, it didn't mean he could just sit back and let Arthur wander out of his front door and out of his life again. No, Eames had made his proverbial bed and needed to lie in it. Arthur wasn't going to like it at all, but Eames had full intent to take some form of responsibility for him since no one else appeared to be showing their hands in the matter. Arthur might have been smart for his age, but in all other considerations, he was still stupid. Eames didn't have to take his shit. He wasn't going to.

"You're right," he told Yusuf, mildly astonished by the revelation. "I have been spineless. I've spent far too long taking his feelings into account that he's gone and gotten hurt worse."

"So, if he refuses?" Yusuf asked again.

"If he refuses, I'll force him to go. He'll hate me for a while, but hopefully one day he'll see it was the best thing I could have done for him."

"And if he doesn't?"

"That's not my problem."

Yusuf smiled tightly, nodding and bouncing on his heels a couple of times before giving Eames an affectionate smack on the shoulder. "I'll call tomorrow afternoon, see how he's doing."

Eames turned to see Yusuf to the door but stopped him with a gentle hand on the shoulder before he opened it. "Ah… Yusuf…"

"What is it, mate?" Yusuf asked, looking back at him.

Eames hesitated, dropping his hand from Yusuf's shoulder. "I… thanks, I guess."

"No worries."

Eames stopped him again and finally found the courage to say what he really intended to say.

"Yusuf—I… I don't want you setting me up on any more dates with your lady friends. I… I'm gay."

Yusuf's eyebrows rose on his forehead, and Eames momentarily stopped breathing, bracing for the impact of rejection.

"I was wondering when you were going to tell me," Yusuf said and gave him a one-armed hug. Eames wasn't even sure how to process that response.

"You… you knew?" he stammered.

"I had my suspicions," Yusuf shrugged. "Don't worry about that, Eames. You're my best mate, always will be, unless you like… kill my family or something, and frankly one or two of them have it coming sometimes."

Eames couldn't help but laugh, tears of relief pricking at his eyes that disguised themselves as tears of mirth. He smacked Yusuf on the back a few times and then embraced him with both arms.

"I'll see you soon," Yusuf said, giving his back a rub and a pat, escaping the hug before he could lose his masculinity. "Ring me up if you need anything, _anything_ , all right? Money, advice, bail money, whatever."

"I'll keep that in mind," Eames said, and shut the door behind Yusuf.

Once he was alone, he let a few tears slip free, but that was all he allowed himself.

There was no point in crying over good things.

* * *

Eames slept on the settee that night, curled up under the afghan Arthur generally liked to use when he was there. Sure, it wasn't comfortable or super warm like his bed, but that was for the best anyway since he got up every few hours to check on Arthur. When he'd left to go get his prescription, he'd come back to find Arthur had escaped the bedroom in search for something and had fainted in the doorway of his office.

When Eames had picked him up and he had stirred, Arthur stupidly tried to explain, "I need a cigarette…"

"You really think that's wise?" Eames asked with a smirk. "You have pneumonia, you know."

"So?"

"So, no smoking. It'll be good for you anyways."

"Great, so I'll be going through nicotine withdrawal on top of everything else, thanks a lot," Arthur mumbled grouchily, and frankly Eames was happy just hear him talking like himself rather than the terrified child of a few hours before. He had a feeling it had a lot to do with the fact that Yusuf and the doctor had left, so he didn't feel afraid.

As if to remind Eames that he wasn't back to sorts just yet, Arthur coughed haggardly into the crook of his elbow.

Arthur looked up at him as Eames put him back to bed, his eyes still as dark as he remembered, and he asked, "Do people die from pneumonia?"

"Rarely," Eames said gently, tucking him in. "The ones that do are left untreated, and/or usually very old or very young."

"Oh…" Arthur said, and Eames couldn't tell if it was relief or disappointment behind the word. It didn't seem that Arthur really knew either.

"Go back to sleep," Eames told him. "I'll bring you a cool cloth for your forehead."

"Eames, wait—" Arthur croaked, grabbing him by the sleeve in the strongest grip he'd been able to manage all night.

"What is it, darling?" Eames asked and mentally kicked himself for the endearment. He was not making things easier on himself… but he was sick, so maybe it would help him feel better. That was his excuse, and he was sticking to it.

"D…"

Eames waited, watching as Arthur looked everywhere but at him, then down at his lap, hand slackening in his sleeve. "D… don't leave…" he whispered, as if it was a horrible thing to say.

"I'm not going anywhere," Eames told him. "I'm just outside the door—"

"Stay in here—with me…" Arthur asked, and Eames would have taken it up as another one of his attempts to manipulate if the boy didn't look so angry at himself for having to ask. The tremble in his hands was real, and so was the quiver of his lip.

He was scared.

Arthur was scared to be alone.

That was probably why he'd gone out into the house, looking for Eames.

Eames stayed with him until he fell asleep, sitting on the edge of the bed and carding a hand through his hair, and then he went back out to the couch and laid down, half watching television, half staring into space, and that was what he'd done for most of the night.

It was nearly five a.m., and he was dozing when he heard the door open again. He peeked over the edge of the couch to see Arthur leaning against the doorframe, hair a mess, shirt falling over his shoulder, ashen and shaky just like before.

"Do you need anything?" Eames asked.

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur asked.

"Doing what exactly?" Eames queried, crawling off of the couch to approach, just in case Arthur decided to collapse again.

"Helping me."

"Because you needed help," Eames replied simply.

"…but…" Arthur shook his head as if there was no way the answer could be that simple. "…but, I have been… _awful_ to you. I've used you and manipulated you, I've said horrible things. Why would you help me after all that? _Why_? I just want to understand!"

As he had spoken, his voice had risen, cracking and squeaking all the way, and by the end of it, he was shouting, tears in his eyes, and then he was coughing into his sleeve, leaving behind a stain Eames wasn't sure he'd ever get out. He slumped forward so far that Eames had to grab his shoulders to keep him from falling over, and then he found himself pulling the boy to his chest.

Arthur crumpled in his arms, very nearly falling to his knees. His coughing slowly descended into gasps for air, and his gasps for air descended into pathetic little whimpers that Eames could tell he was trying to hide.

Eames lifted him into his arms and carried him back to the bed, but when he tried to move, he found that Arthur had taken a death grip to his shirt. "St—stay—p—please—"

"Darling—"

"I—I'll do whatever you want—just— _fuck_ —please— please don't just leave when I fall asleep…" Arthur sputtered.

"Your fever is spiking. You're getting delirious," Eames told him. He could feel the heat emanating off of Arthur's skin.

"She left when I fell asleep! She left while I was sleeping! Don't leave me while I'm asleep!" Arthur shrieked, eyes rolling back in his head.

Eames picked him up again and carried him to the bathroom, Arthur screaming all the way. He climbed into the shower and turned on the tap, and cool water rained down on top of them, and Arthur's screaming quieted.

He looked up at Eames, wet strands of hair sticking to his forehead and the side of his face, and he looked eerily innocent. "Eames," he said as if he had just noticed him for the first time.

"It's me," Eames assured him, sitting down in the basin of the tub and swiping the dripping hair out of Arthur's eyes.

Arthur closed his eyes and leaned into Eames's hand. "You should have just let me die," he mumbled.

Eames cradled him close, the water unceasingly drizzling down upon them.

* * *

When Arthur's fever had died down, Eames carried him back to the room and started to undress him from the wet clothes. Arthur stared at a spot on the floor, as if he wasn't present, but Eames decided against snapping his fingers in his face.

When he went to redress him in dry clothes, Arthur placed his hand against his wrist, pushing it down gently. "I'm okay…" he said softly. "Will you just…"

"I need to dress you, love."

"No… I… no, I'll just mess up your clothes… just… please… lay with me…?"

Eames sighed through his nose. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"I don't mean anything sexual by it," Arthur said, voice trembling on the word 'sexual'. "I just… please…? I won't do anything, I swear… I just…"

"Just what?" Eames asked softly, tugging off his wet shirt and taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

"I…" Arthur looked away as if ashamed to admit it. "I just want someone to hold me… I don't want to be by myself…"

Eames opened his mouth to reply but Arthur buried his face in his knees. "Oh, _God_ , I can't believe I just said that! Fuck, I—I must sound so fucking pathetic—I—"

"Arthur."

Arthur looked up, eyes wide and so dark, clearing his throat to try and prevent a cough.

"Let's just go to sleep then, yeah?" Eames offered, dropping the rest of his clothes.

Arthur slumped, coughing, and let Eames pull him into his arms. Eames pulled the covers over the both of them, and Arthur leaned up against his chest.

"Eames… I… thank you…"

Eames kissed the top of his head. "Don't mention it, darling."

"Eames?"

"Mm?"

Arthur looked up at him as Eames switched off the lamp. "Do you remember when I said that I don't trust anyone?"

"I do remember that, yes," Eames said, rubbing his back when he started to cough again.

Arthur licked the sputum off of his lips and swallowed and said softly, scratchily, "I trust you."

"Do you?" Eames said curiously.

Arthur offered Eames a tight smile, as if he felt that the news wasn't really worth anything, that he just wanted to tell someone and get it off of his chest (God knows he was having enough difficulty with his chest in a physical sense—even metaphorical weight being lifted off of it would probably help at this point).

Still, the physical response Arthur had given to a phrase that should have been so heavy and so important to someone who had never trusted anyone else surprised Eames. He had had an idea about but never realized just how much Arthur felt he was worthless. It was probably only magnified now by the events that had taken place, of course, but it didn't make it any less sad.

It wasn't any question as to why Arthur felt like he wanted to die.

…and he was sure if this admission had happened earlier, Eames would have passed it off as manipulation on Arthur's part, but… well…

Arthur had nothing to gain and nothing to lose from it. He'd said it simply because it was true, and if all he wanted was for someone to hold him, Eames didn't mind. It was the least he could do.

He'd decide what to do in the morning. For now, the both of them could just use a little sleep.

Arthur curled up against him, skinny arms folded up against his chest, and he coughed throughout the entirety of the morning.

His fever shot up around ten a.m., and Eames was forced to get out of bed and retrieve the medication that the doctor had prescribed for Arthur as well as a cool cloth for his forehead. Getting Arthur to take the pills was a struggle, but eventually he gave in, but after the swallowing of the pills it took even longer to get him settled back in since he seemed to be intent on getting a cigarette. Eames gave him ice to chew on instead, and eventually he calmed down, slipping into a hazy half-awake state.

"Don't you have to go to work…?" he asked, staring up at the ceiling through half-lidded eyes. "It's morning, isn't it?"

"It is morning, yes, but school is out for the semester," Eames told him. "It's December. It's nearly Christmastime."

"Oh…" Arthur mumbled, eyes fluttering closed. "I didn't… I didn't realize… Sorry… I'm sorry…"

"You said you were sorry twice."

"I'm sorry… for everything…" Arthur breathed and then fell silent, giving Eames no more than the general statement to mull over.

For a long moment, Eames thought he had finally drifted off to sleep, head tilted against his fingertips, but then Arthur sighed as if awakening again.

"Just go back to sleep," Eames whispered, hoping to push him along. "You need the rest."

"I love you…"

Arthur fell asleep before he could explain, leaving Eames sitting frozen at his side, not sure how to feel.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Eames is a burned out university professor who goes to the park for lunch to get away from the chaos of his life. There he meets 16-year-old Arthur and begins to befriend him for his ability to have an intelligent conversation with him. When he discovers the boy is homeless, he decides to take care of him, but things with Arthur get more complicated than he could ever expect.

Part Eleven

For the next five days, Arthur was bedridden.

He battled a fever and a terrible cough when he was awake, but he slept ninety percent of the time. On that fifth day, his cough lessened in its ferocity, and his fever stayed low-grade, and he seemed a bit more present.

On the sixth day, Eames came home to find that Arthur wasn't even in bed.

"Arthur?" he called out.

Arthur wandered out of Eames's office, arms folded around himself, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, still ashen faced but looking otherwise much better. "H—hey," he said awkwardly. "I was wondering where you'd gone."

Eames held up a bag of McDonald's and offered Arthur a smile and received one in return.

They sat together at the coffee table, eating in silence. It was only when breakfast was finished that one of them spoke.

It was Arthur.

"You're good at forgery."

It came a bit out of left field, and Eames just found himself staring for a long second. "Pardon?" he asked.

Arthur looked up at him. "You're good at forgery," he repeated, "at least good enough to convince the university staff that hired you."

Eames remained silent, just watching Arthur, waiting for him to continue.

Arthur didn't disappoint. "Your degree. It's a forgery, isn't it?"

"What makes you think that?" Eames asked lightly, a smirk playing on his lips.

Arthur pressed his fingertips together and explained, "Well… I've had to forge a lot of things to get by, and to be honest I was pretty much fooled… except you keep it hidden in your desk rather than hanging it on your wall. It's so no one can find the subtle little mistakes, right? I've had to look at it several times before I spotted them."

Eames sat back. "Well, you caught me. I was only short a couple of classes, mind you, but no—technically I didn't graduate."

"Then why be a teacher?"

Eames shrugged. "I enjoyed the classroom setting. I loved the learning process, the passion for knowledge."

"So… why didn't you graduate?"

"I'm a bit surprised that wasn't your first question, but the truth is my mum got sick and I had to take care of her. I ended up failing some of my courses, and I couldn't afford to go back."

"Oh…" Arthur mumbled, pulling a knee up to his chest and wrapping his hands around it. "Did she get better?"

"She did. I couldn't tell her that I failed though. She was so proud of me for getting into the university in the first place, and she was still fragile, so… well, I faked it. I always had the intention of going back, but I never really had the chance. Time slipped away from me."

"…but… you wanted to be an actor."

"Sometimes we don't always get what we want. When I was young, I'd wanted desperately for that, yes. School was a backup plan, in case I didn't make it, and because no one in my family had ever made it into a university. I tried the acting thing, and it didn't work out… and I think… I think it's because I wanted it for all the wrong reasons. I acted because I wanted to feel something. I wanted to be someone… because I was so numb on the inside and starved for attention. It's quite pathetic that it took me so long to realize."

"We all have our problems," Arthur said. "So, you realized it now?"

"I have… and I suppose that's why I should apologize."

"Apologize?" Arthur asked, looking at him as though he were a lunatic. "For what?"

"I used you," Eames said softly. "I used you to quell my loneliness."

"Oh," Arthur said, eyes drifting off to the side, his awkwardness returning. "Well… no big deal… it's not like I haven't been used before. At least you were nice to me about it."

"That doesn't make it all right. Arthur… I know you don't realize it, but the way you've been mistreated your entire life is… wrong."

"I know that," Arthur replied, blinking. "Well, I mean—in the sense I know it's wrong by societal standards, but the fact of the matter is that… well, I've lived this way my whole life. This is how it's supposed to be."

"No it isn't."

"Yeah, well… what do you know," Arthur mumbled, and there was absolutely no bite to it. "I was never meant for this world, Eames… No one's ever wanted me or needed me for any _real_ reason. I'm smart but not smart enough; I'm stealthy but not stealthy enough. My future is already laid out before me. I mean, come on, let's face it. I'm going to continue being a whore because I can't get good work, and eventually I'll turn to drugs because I'm dead inside, and then I'll die. No one will miss me."

Eames wanted to cry at that, but instead he asked, "If you were never meant for this world then why the bloody hell were you brought into it?"

Arthur looked up at him, blank faced. "I was another of my mom's many mistakes. Don't you see? Don't give me that 'everything happens for a reason, everyone has a purpose' bullshit. Some people are here for no reason other than making other people feel better about themselves for not being them."

Eames sighed and carded a hand through Arthur's hair. He could tell by the dotting of sweat along his forehead that he was still running a small fever. "All right… I won't feed you any of that… but may I say something?" Arthur nodded. "You are… sixteen years old, correct? Sixteen and full of piss and vinegar and trouble. You've barely begun to even _live_ , so how the fuck are you supposed to know what your purpose is just yet? Maybe you have one and maybe you don't, but you can't be sure right _now_."

"What makes you think that?" Arthur retaliated, looking a bit surprised to find Eames not immediately lapping up everything he fed him.

"Because no one knows their purpose when they're sixteen whether you grew up on the streets or grew up in a posh suburb, and I believe that you _know_ that. No one knows what their future holds. If my sixteen year old self was sitting here at this moment, I guarantee he would tell you that he was going to be a famous actor all around the world, and he would be as stubborn and trouble-seeking as you are. He would also know absolutely nothing about himself, would be entirely too terrified to even face it, and never trust anyone to tell him differently."

Arthur stared at him flatly, and Eames chuckled. "He would look at me a lot like you're looking at me now. Are you aware how much older you look with that little wrinkle between your eyebrows?"

Arthur's eyes turned towards the floor for a long moment, and that little wrinkle didn't disappear. "I really don't understand you. You're this… complete pushover who I took advantage of, and then suddenly you turn into this angry motherfucker who never wants to see me again, and then… well, fuck, I don't know who you are."

"I'm still figuring it out myself," Eames said with a shrug, "and I'm thirty-two bloody years old. That's why I'm telling you not to give up on yourself just yet."

Arthur stood up, arms folding around himself, and started pacing, looking gradually more and more uncomfortable. Eames wasn't sure what he'd said to make him so upset, wasn't sure if maybe Arthur's thoughts had drifted to more unsettling things on their own.

"You're so full of it," Arthur said, voice strained. "I just… I don't get it. I don't get you. You're a fucking contradiction, you know? You like me, and then you hate my guts—you tell me you can't and won't help me ever again, and then you drag me back to your apartment and nurse me back to health… and for _what_? I'm just going to go back on the streets again. I'm just going to go right back to what I was doing. Why are you bothering? Why are you wasting your time?"

Eames took hold of Arthur's shirt tail to get him to stop moving. "Arthur," he said frankly, "I've never thought you were a waste of time."

"I am," Arthur said. "I'm a big waste of time. I mean—fuck, look at what I've done to you. I've made you agonize and worry and suffer… You really shouldn't bother with me, Eames… I'm just a damaged item. You were right about me, okay? I was a big mistake."

"I never said you were a mistake," Eames clarified. "Darling—"

Arthur pulled himself free and paced again, albeit more slowly. "I'm just going to keep using you. Don't you realize that? Don't you see what you're doing to yourself—Oh! Oh, I see, I get it. You're _trying_ to hurt yourself. You're trying to fuck yourself over because you're full of self-loathing. I understand now. You're just as fucked up as you've ever been, and you want me to take me down with you so you won't be alone."

Eames raised an eyebrow, and Arthur stilled, falling silent when he didn't get a response.

"Aren't you going to try to deny it?" Arthur asked, confused.

"I don't think you were talking about me, love," Eames replied.

Arthur stared.

And stared.

Opened his mouth and closed it.

"I wasn't—I wasn't talking about me—"

"Trying to hurt yourself? Fuck yourself over? Take someone down with you so you don't have to it alone?" Eames said quietly. "That sounds like you, Arthur."

"No, it doesn't!" Arthur denied, eyes flashing.

"You've been self-destructing ever since your mother left. You blame yourself for it, don't you?"

"That's not true!" Arthur cried, trembling. "I don't care about her or that she left—I was just trying to find her to—to—"

"To ask her why?" Eames answered for him.

Arthur's shoulders sagged, and his eyes welled with tears he refused to cry. "What do you know?" he spat again.

Eames stood, not letting Arthur wound him with a single sharp word. "I've had a lot of time to think about this," he told him, settling his hands on Arthur's shoulders. "I know that's why you've been doing all of this… why you don't care what happens to you. You want to believe that no one cares about you. I want to know why _that_ is."

"I don't… care about myself…" Arthur said. "Why should anyone else?... but I'm not—I'm not trying to self-destruct or anything, I mean. I'm _not_. You— _You're_ the one who's doing that, not me. I'm fine."

"Arthur," Eames said again, gentle, thumbs rubbing circles on his collar bone. "It's okay… It's okay to be afraid. To be hurt… but what your mother did wasn't your fault, and you can't blame yourself for that… It's okay to want someone to be there for you, and it's okay to let them care about you. I _care_ about you, Arthur, I do, and that's not going to change."

Arthur stared up at him, lower lip trembling. "N—no you don't… No, _no_ , I don't want you to!"

"I know," Eames replied, squeezing his shoulders just a little. "You don't want to legitimize yourself because that makes everything that happened to you _real_."

"Nothing happened to me!" Arthur shrieked, feebly trying to escape Eames's grip. He still hadn't gotten his strength back, and Eames had a feeling his fever was on the rise. "I told you—I'm _fine_ —I'm not—I'm not as messed up as you think I am! I'm in control of the situation! I do what I want to do, and no one can hurt me!"

The room fell silent save for Arthur's heavy wheezing. Eames stayed where he was, hands on Arthur's shoulders, looking down at those dark eyes lined with tears.

Arthur blinked, one tear sliding down his cheek.

"Arthur," Eames said softly. "It's okay. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, love."

Arthur blinked again, two more tears, one on each cheek slipping free. "It's not okay…" he said, voice wobbling. "…Why?... Why did she leave me?"

Eames pulled him into his arms, rocking him gently as Arthur sobbed quietly into his chest. He petted Arthur's hair and cooed sweet nothings at him, providing as much comfort as he could.

Arthur quieted and looked up at Eames, hopeless, scared. "E—Eames…" he choked, sniffing. "W… was I raped…?"

Eames's heart broke, and he asked, "Were you?"

Arthur's face screwed up. "I _was_ … He… That guy, he…" he said and fell into another fit of sobs, loud and ugly.

Eames ended up having to carry him back to bed, tucking him in and stroking his arm until he cried himself to sleep.

It was horrible and sad, but… well…

At least it was progress.

* * *

Arthur was bedridden for a couple more days.

Eames watched over him when he could, but he was asleep most of the time anyway.

Eames himself had been sleeping on the couch. He awoke with a start when he felt a hand on his chest, but it was only Arthur, and he didn't appear to be trying anything. In fact… something was… different.

It only took a moment before Eames realized it was his eyes. They were swollen and wet like he'd never stopped crying, and…

They were honey brown.

The darkness in them was gone.

It was like looking at a different person.

"Arthur?" Eames questioned, not sure if he was dreaming or not.

"I just thought that I would say goodbye," Arthur said, and he looked and sounded older. Eames also noticed at that moment that he'd taken one of Eames's duffel bags out of the closet and had it slouched over his shoulder, probably full of the clothes Eames had bought him and maybe a couple of his books.

"Goodbye?" Eames asked, sitting up on his elbows. "Where are you going?"

Arthur looked away for a moment. "I… don't really know… Maybe a shelter or something. Maybe just… I don't know, someone who can help me. The private investigator found some of my family members a couple of towns over. If I can make a little money, maybe I can get him to give me their address or phone number, and they can… I don't know, take me in or something. I just need some help."

"Someone to help you find your mum?"

Arthur shook his head, a solemn half-smile forming on his lips. "I already found her. She died two years ago. She's buried in a cemetery not far from here, but her grave isn't marked, so I can't visit it."

"When… when did you learn that?"

Arthur shrugged. "Sometime between when I left and got mugged."

"Darling—"

Arthur shook his head, silencing him, sitting down on the coffee table. "I… I wanted to say I was sorry for everything I've done to you. I know you think you used me and all that, but… but I'm the one who used you. In the end, you really were just trying to help me, and I took advantage of your kindness. I'm a bastard in every sense of the word.

"But… you should know that—the things I've said to you about how I trust you… that's true. I'd even go so far as to say that I… that…" he hesitated, cheeks flushing surprisingly innocently. "That I might love you a little bit… if I'm capable of it, I mean… I don't even know how to love someone.

"Anyway…" he stood up. "I hope you don't mind if I take this bag and stuff. I just kind of need it right now, and—and I'll bring it back to you someday. When I can. When I'm better."

Eames stood too, taking Arthur's frail shoulders in his hands again, heart aching. "You have helped me learn to accept myself, you know. For the first time in my life, I'm starting to like who I am—who I really am," he told Arthur. "You may have had a very unorthodox method, but you've helped me, and I love you very much for that. That's why I can't let you walk out that door without being absolutely sure you'll be all right."

Arthur smiled at him. "I will be all right. I'm not going to whore myself out anymore. I'll just have to find some other way to get by… I don't… I don't want to hate myself anymore. I don't want to blame myself. I will never get the answers to why my mother left me, but I can't keep telling myself that it's my fault and that no one is going to give a shit if I die or not… because… _you_ care. I don't know why, but you do."

Eames lifted a hand and pushed it through Arthur's bangs, marveling at the way his eyelashes fluttered a little. "You're just a kid," Eames said. "A smart, wonderful kid. You're going to be okay."

"If I start to slip up, all I have to do is think of you," Arthur said. "That… that look on your face when you found me. The way you were so nice to me. The way you saw me when no one else did and tried to help me even with detriment to your own well-being. You didn't have to do that."

"You're my friend," Eames shrugged.

"Maybe someday, I could be more than your friend," Arthur said. "Not now, obviously… but someday? It's possible? I'm not asking you to wait for me or anything—"

"Maybe someday," Eames answered, mostly just out of kindness. There was a little part of him that wanted it too, but… well, he couldn't listen to that side of him right now. "Let me get you a cab to wherever you need to go."

"I can't afford—"

Eames dug out his wallet and gave Arthur the three-hundred dollars he had there. "I know it's not much, but it should help you start to get where you need to go. Find your family. Live your life. Be _happy_. I want you to be happy, Arthur."

"I can't accept this."

"Take it," Eames said, folding Arthur's fingers around it. "I don't want you getting money by less legitimate means."

"I won't," Arthur said, pouting a little, but then he broke into a tiny grin, dimpling one cheek. "Thank you. Eames."

"My pleasure, darling."

Arthur pushed himself up on his tiptoes and kissed Eames, innocent and sweet, as if it was his very first kiss, and Eames kissed him back with the same state of mind.

"I'll bring this stuff back," Arthur assured him, touching the side of his face. "You stay gold there, okay Ponyboy?"

"Are you taking my copy of _The Outsiders_?" Eames asked, ruffling his hair.

"I'll bring it back."

Eames called him a taxi, and entirely too soon, Arthur was gone out of his life.

Eames never said goodbye.

* * *

Arthur sent him a letter or two for the first few months, but those dropped off, and for the next three years Eames didn't hear from him again. A couple of missed calls once in a while might have been him, but Eames never could be sure.

He had taken up jogging in the mornings to stay in some sort of shape and had started wearing glasses to help his worsening eye sight, but he still thought he looked pretty good considering he was in his mid-thirties. He'd had a couple of boyfriends by then (but was currently single), was officially out of the closet to pretty much everyone (not that he was making it obvious; his private life was his own business after all), and he'd switched to teaching night classes on Tuesdays only so that he could act in the local community theater. Sure, he wasn't a famous actor with a shelf full of Oscars or anything, but he was happier than he'd ever been.

His first class of the year was about to start, and he was already in the room, looking over his syllabus for any errors he might have missed even though it wouldn't really matter now that he'd already printed thirty copies. He didn't notice when the first student entered the room, didn't notice anything really until there was a loud thump on his desk.

Eames turned to see a duffel bag filled to the brim with books. The person beside it, well…

He was tall, possibly an inch taller than Eames, dark hair slicked back on his head to bring attention to the sharpness of his features and perfectly shaped bow lips. He was dressed in dark corduroy trousers and high-tops, with a red sweater over an angelic white collared shirt, and his hands were shoved in his pockets.

"You've grown into those lanky limbs of yours," Eames said, almost wistful, as if he couldn't quite believe that it was _Arthur_ standing there.

"A couple of growth spurts and a healthy diet will do that to you," Arthur replied with a smirk, honey brown eyes just _gleaming_. Fuck, he sounded so grown up.

"What are you doing here?" Eames asked in wonder.

"Returning your stuff with some interest," Arthur said, pointing to the bag. "Also, class."

It took a long moment for Eames to register what he meant. "You're… in this class?"

Arthur snorted and extended his hand. "Arthur Drexler is me, yes. Nice to meet you, _Mr. Eames_."

Eames smirked and took the hand, shaking it firmly. "You're a college man then, are you?"

"Full ride scholarship," Arthur replied lightly. "Can we talk after class?"

Eames only then noticed the other students filing in.

"Of course."

* * *

It was weird to teach with Arthur watching him. If Eames didn't look at him directly, he'd see the same scrawny runt of a boy he was familiar with. Of course, he had a hard time _not_ looking at him directly because damn if Arthur didn't look fantastic.

It was like he was an entirely different person. He was pretty sure Arthur _was._

The class went well enough, despite Eames being the slightest bit distracted the entire time. He was charming and funny and the other students loved him. Arthur sat quietly in the back of the class, scribbling away notes in his notebook. No one knew or even suspected that he was once a homeless prostitute, and that was the first thing Arthur pointed out once the other students had cleared out.

"They have no idea," he chuckled, wandering casually towards Eames. "The faculty does though. I wrote about it in my essay that I sent in for my scholarships."

"That partially explains your full ride. How have you been, Arthur?"

"I've… been busy? I guess?" Arthur shrugged, hopping up onto Eames's desk, kicking his legs off of the side. "Yeah, I mean… the private investigator led me to my grandmother, and she took me in. She's strict as hell, wouldn't let me smoke, but she got my ass in gear. I completed four years of high school work in two and a half thanks to her tutelage."

"That's great, Arthur," Eames said, and he genuinely meant it.

"I've also, um… I've also been seeing a therapist?" he said unsurely, as if he was embarrassed to admit it. "It's really helped me a lot… but I don't really… I mean, I guess I just get defensive even now. Bad habits die hard and whatnot."

Eames smiled at him. "You're doing well then. That's bloody brilliant, Arthur, really."

Arthur looked out the window, his eyes still achieving that lonely distance they had tended to have in the past, but it faded away much more quickly than it used to. "How are you?" Arthur asked, turning those eyes on Eames.

"Fantastic," Eames told him. "I'm acting again, and I'm just… _happy_."

Arthur _beamed_ , his whole face lighting up with the smile. "Awesome, Eames. That's great."

Silence lapsed between them for a long moment. Eames shuffled his feet, adjusted his briefcase.

"I missed you," Arthur said softly. "I'm sorry I didn't write. My grandma didn't trust I was writing to someone worthwhile. She was convinced that you were my drug dealer or pimp or something."

Eames laughed, clapping a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Oh, darling… I've missed you too."

He didn't realize how much until that moment.

Arthur bit his bottom lip for a moment and hesitantly asked, "Do you think we could go get coffee or something sometime? I mean… I'm not trying to ask you out or anything—u-unless you want to, that is, um… I just… I'd like to talk to you."

"I'd like that," Eames said. "Perhaps that, or… perhaps we could share a sandwich in the park."

Arthur's eyes lit up. "That… I think I can manage."


End file.
